


Nobody's Fault But Mine

by Akiruchan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biting, First Time, M/M, Marking, Pack Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Stiles being akward, Stilinski feels, turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiruchan/pseuds/Akiruchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has always been good at ignoring his problems. Preferring to wait them out until they are nothing but a distant memory.  But when a midnight stroll leads to a nasty scratch to Stiles side, courtesy of Derek, Stiles finds that some things just can't be ignored, not that he doesn't try. Better hearing and improved eyesight, that is something he can ignore for now. The sudden urge to touch and smell Derek all the time? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, this is my first go at writing for Teen Wolf, and first time writing after a year hiatus. Not to mention my first time writing in present tense. So bare with me. lol. Lots of firsts here. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta'ed, just a few quick read throughs by me. So I'm sorry for any mistakes I've over looked. I'll put up the beta'ed version once it's available. 
> 
> Lastly, this fic takes place roughly sometime during the middle or so of Season Two, I'll probably end up being a little vague on anything too canon. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**1.**  
__________

It’s a Wednesday, a school night, and Stiles is still trying to make sense of why he’s in the middle of the woods. It’s November, there is sleet and mud and cold wetness all around. There is nothing Stiles finds more unpleasant than having his feet freeze inside cold soggy socks while trying to regain some feeling back into his hands and face. 

The most disconcerting presence, be not the actual cold, but the overhanging moon peering in through the bare branches of trees. It’s full and wide and everything Stiles does not want to be seeing tonight. Beacon Hills isn’t exactly the best place to be enjoying moonlit strolls. Not unless you’re into running for your life with the potential of getting your face bitten off. Probably makes for a good workout, but Stiles prefers less life threatening exercise regimes. He gets enough of the life threatening thing in everyday matters. 

A howl cuts through the night pausing his forward march. And that right there, would most likely be the reason why he’s being partially insane and traipsing through the woods. Stiles halts, eyes carefully grazing over the dark recesses and really hoping he doesn’t see something staring back. 

Stiles really isn’t sure who it is causing the havoc and sending out the town’s people with their pitchforks and torches. The town’s people specifically, in this case, being the Beacon Hills’ police. Which unfortunately defaults his father’s involvement. 

It was closing in around midnight when his dad had knocked on Stiles’ door. There had been a call to the station, something about a wild animal terrorizing the Warren’s chickens and spooking the horses. Stiles hadn’t been too concerned until his dad informed him that Mark Warren seemed pretty convinced that it was a wolf stalking his property. 

That had left Stiles to frantically grapple for his phone once he was sure his dad was out the front door and pulling out of the driveway. A text to Scott showed that he was currently being bored and doing rather un-werewolf like stuff; waiting out the full moon via X-box. That crossed Scott off the list, not that Stiles was surprised. Scott hadn’t turned killer wolf in a long while, not since joining Derek’s pack. 

Next Stiles had been grudgingly left to text Derek. The response he got was anything but reassuring. 

_I’m taking care of it._

Yup, things were going to be just peachy tonight; heavy doses of sarcasm included. He wasn’t even sure which of Derek’s dream team was currently playing big bad wolf to the town’s folk. In retrospect it probably didn’t even matter. Stiles could only grab his hoodie and pull on his shoes before bounding down the stairs, into his Jeep, and eventually finding himself in his current predicament. 

Another howl, this time closer, came from what could possibly be the north. On the bright side, Stiles could infer that the werewolf in question had moved away from the Warren’s farm and thus away from his father. It was a rather large blessing, and cause for some of the panic to wear away. That still didn’t put Stiles out of the line of fire. 

Something was telling him that he probably could have thought things through a little better. When Stiles had ran from his house, his only thoughts had been on keeping his father safe. How he was going to do that really hadn’t come to mind. Even now Stiles isn’t too sure how he’s going to keep himself safe. 

In hindsight, this is probably one of those situations better left to Derek. They’re his pack, his responsibility. Not to mention he has the means to take them on. Unlike Stiles. The whole no fangs and claws thing isn’t really a helping point. 

“Why can’t things be normal,” he groans with some ounce of irony. If you’d asked Stiles a year ago, he’d been more than happy to write a dissertation on the cons of normality and how it was slowly eating away at the hearts of our youth. Tonight, Stiles can’t help but wish he was currently sitting with a pile of homework in front of him; being the very definition of normal. Where were the good old days when his biggest fear was never getting to play first-line during lacrosse? “Fucking werewolves.” _Nothing but life ruiners._

A twig snaps somewhere in front of Stiles. It’s loud enough that he can cross out it being a harmless rabbit. If he is lucky then maybe in a few short seconds he will see Bambi frolicking out from the mist and trees. Unfortunately Stiles knows he is rarely lucky. He decides then that he’s toying with his fate just a little too much tonight and turns on his heel. The Jeep can’t be more than a few paces back, or more than a few, but who’s really counting? 

Stiles speeds up, not because of any possibly bloodthirsty beast being of his tail, no, but because it is probably a good idea that Stiles beats his dad home. Right now Stiles really wishes, hopes, that his dad will be the scariest thing he faces tonight. He ignores everything around him. The twig snapping increasing, growing closer, and was that a growl? 

Stopping, which is probably another thing to add to the list of dumb things he’s done tonight, Stiles listens. He doesn’t dare turn around and... Yeah that was a growl. 

“Hey there...” Stiles turns, squinting through the murky fog. He can just barely make out the blonde curls of Erica’s hair. “uh... Erica,” he greets as pleasantly as he can while trying not to be too put off by the continuous string of growls coming from her. 

The instinct to run is high. Taking a step back and Stiles is contemplating a quick and timely escape. He isn’t so dense as to think he can outrun a werewolf. Scott has proven that point many times in the past and Stiles isn’t about to have it reconsolidated. Not now when his tag partner is less than friendly. This isn’t a harmless schoolyard game. 

Another step back and Erica is advancing, or stalking, definitely stalking. Stiles is man enough to admit that Erica scares him on a good day. This though, this was leaving Stiles’ shaking in his soggy wet sneakers. He could not ignore the fact that he’s being hunted. Animal Planet had taught him that; this situation reminding him of the time he watched a tiger stalking after a helpless taper. 

Stiles would not be the taper. It’s not within his job description. Tag along, sidekick, the brains, those he can deal with. Werewolf chew toy. Not so much. 

With how slowly Erica is advancing, Stiles is able to gain a small sliver of hope that he might be able to work this backward retreat all the way to his Jeep. It’s a stupid, really stupid, hope but it’s all he has at the moment. There is at least a mile or more of forest between himself and his means of escape, and that is only if he’s heading in the right direction. 

A glance behind him is out of the question. Never turn your back on a wild animal. Stiles knew that much at least. The tiger comes to mind again, the poor taper jumped from behind. Keeping his eyes locked on Erica seems like a brilliant idea, until halfway past a gnarled oak has Stiles falling back onto the forest floor; his heel having caught on a twisted root. 

The trigger is instantaneous. He hears the roar of Erica, the crunch of twigs and leaves as she comes for the attack. Stiles expects a blow to his front, claws in his chest and jaws tearing into his throat. What he gets is something wholly different if not any less painful. The blow comes from his left, sweeping him up and sending him out further into the underbrush of the forest and out of Erica’s path. 

Rocks and branches meet his back, and the pain is there. He sees white for only a moment, sight coming back in a quick blessing. What he sees unsettles him just as much as it grants him some form of relief. Erica is pinned and bloodied beneath a black mass of muscle and might. The shining red eyes tells Stiles all he needs to know. 

“Derek,” is all Stiles has to whisper before Derek’s massive head is turning and sending a threatening growl towards him. The meaning behind the bellow does not go unheard from Stiles. He shakes off the shock of seeing Derek in full out Alpha-Mode, and darts to his feet. 

It’s an ungraceful exit, but Stiles never was good on his feet. He’s too intent on making it back to the safety of his jeep to worry about any pretenses that he knows he does not have. Every jagged branch reaches out to scratch at his face, his arms. The pain is only a dull throb next to the adrenaline coursing through him. It’s what keeps him going, on and on. 

The moment he spots the clearing where he has parked his beat up Jeep is the most significant accomplishment in his high school career. Tomorrow he might have to rethink that claim, but for now Stiles cannot be happier. It feels like a tremendous win for himself. He breaths in heavily, relief and fatigue catching up to him as he slides into the driver’s seat. 

Keys jingle as Stiles’ hands shake. It takes a good minute before he has the ignition going and another before he feels composed enough to tackle driving. There is a moment when he thinks about waiting; letting his body calm and come down from the high, but it’s late. If Stiles wants to save himself from a lecture from his father, then it would be in his best favor to leave now. It’s probably already too late, but no harm, no foul. 

When the tires bump off the dirt and gravel and up onto the smooth asphalt of the main road, Stiles breathes just a little easier. His heart beats a continuous _thump-thump-thump_ in his chest, but the tightness there eases. It’s late, the clouds in the sky covering the light of the moon making everything just a little darker. 

There is an even buzz in Stiles’ side pocket as his phone vibrates, announcing a text. Taking his eyes off the road for only a moment, not that he would ever admit to actually checking a text while driving, he fishes the phone from his pocket and fiddles with the screen. 

It’s from his father. A simple ‘ _Heading to the station to write the report. Won’t be home till early morning_.’ is written on the screen. Well that seemed to put Stiles’ mad dash home on a lower level of urgency. Speeding was one less law he’d have to worry about breaking tonight. 

The drive home is quicker than Stiles would have thought. He might have spaced out somewhere between the movie theater and the grocery store, but that is all speculation on his part. Right now he can’t help but stare at his house. Every light is off, giving the air of a family long since having went to bed. 

Stiles sighs, cutting the engine and slipping from the Jeep. A pained hiss is held back between clenched teeth and he knows he will be feeling this in the morning. With the adrenaline seeping from every last pore, Stiles can feel the scraps on his back, his face, and arms. Everything hurts, but the sudden burning in his side pulls Stiles’ immediate concern. 

Biting down on his lip, he makes his way towards the door. It’s already unlocked, Stiles not having paused to bother to lock it in his haste to leave. It doesn’t really matter, no one would be stupid enough to break into the Sheriff's home. 

Stumbling through the door, Stiles doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He knows his house by heart; a little dark not being the greatest hindrance in the world at the moment. Everything is quiet, save for his labored breathing. The stairs are a nuisance with Stiles’ legs already sore and shaking from the running and walking he had been doing all night. He trips once, or maybe twice, although he’s reluctant to admit to either slips having happened. 

It never felt so good to be back in his room. It’s cool and calming and for the first time Stiles is able to let the entirety of himself relax and unwind. His hoodie is pulled off and thrown over his desk, shoes being kicked off next between stumbled steps to his bed. The mattress is soft and feels so fucking good. It’s almost tempting to fall asleep right then and there. 

Temptation being apparently too much to resist at the moment, Stiles yawns and curls into himself. Muscles ache, stretches of skin burn, but it’s all too much and not exactly enough at the same time. A confusing medley of feelings that can only bleed way to and exhausted sleep, haunted only by the hope that everything will be better in the morning. 

And so Stiles sleeps. 

\----------

The morning comes, quick and bright as if it had never left. Stiles moans into his pillow, mouth sickly dry, head and body pounding. Harsh beeping completes the horrid experience, and Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to move just yet to set off his alarm. Just moving a finger seems like too big of an effort. 

“Shut up... please,” he pleads to the alarm, as if that would work at all. Stiles manages a glare, but not much more than that. Heaving a huff that turns into a groan, he stretches out his body. There is a crack that he’s sure is his backbone, coupled with a few million other discomforts. 

Out of all the days he could be waking up to post werewolf attack issues, it had to be a school day. Seriously, Stiles was going to implement a weekend only rule. It doesn’t help that his shirt is clinging to him in the most unsightly way and he’s pretty sure there is a bruise the size of Texas blooming on his side. 

The alarm is finally turned off, only to make room for the buzz of Stiles phone. Checking the device, there is a small army of missed texts. The majority of them are from Scott. No real surprise there. A few of the newer ones even question Stiles’ adventures last night. Apparently Scott had been informed of Erica’s little midnight romp. 

Aside from Scott’s, there is one from his Dad, and almost surprisingly one from Derek. Stiles clicks on it curiously. It’s short, blunt, and to the point. Nothing surprising there. 

_Are you hurt?_

Stiles wasn’t one to see concern where it wasn’t, but it pleases him that Derek is seemingly taking responsibility for what had happened last night. He smiles and tosses the phone to the side to give himself room to fully look over the state of his body. Yeah, he was hurt, but the extent of which was still unknown. 

There are minor scratches on his arms, nothing to worry about. It’s when he turns to address the burn at his side, that Stiles feels his stomach twist. The dark stain against the purple of his tee is unmistakable. He had dealt with blood enough to recognize it in any state. 

With ginger touches, Stiles peals of the shirt. It sticks to the wound and he winces as it’s pulled away; some of the cut reopening. He can feel fresh blood rolling down his skin and soaking into his jeans and boxers. Too much blood it feels like, and it gives Stiles a disquieting feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Taking a deep breath Stiles glances down to eye the bloody mess that is now his waist and hip. The scratch is distinct, deep and clearly infected. The skin is puckered an angry purple-red. It needs to be cleaned and covered, a task Stiles is reluctant to undertake. He had seen injuries of this caliber, but with knowing that this was inflicted upon his own body sends a twisting nausea to his gut. 

Stiles takes deep breaths and hardens himself to the task at hand. He isn’t about to faint from a little scratch. A scratch from a werewolf, he reminds himself. From Derek. He glances quickly to his abandoned phone, remembering the text he had received sometime during the night or early morning. 

_Are you hurt?_ It brings a grim smile to Stiles lips but he quickly picks up his phone and types a hasty reply. 

_I’m excellent. Got home in one piece._

He’s not sure why he lies, but with everything going on, Stiles figures that Derek could use one less thing to feel guilty about. A similar message is sent to Scott and the phone is tossed once more on the bed, being ignored in favor of tending to the scratch. Or Gash, but scratch sounds slightly less urgent. 

Wryly Stiles thinks that it’s good that it was a scratch instead of a bite. He’s not too sure if he’s ready to join the hairy mutts. The thought doesn’t seem to settle well and Stiles is forced to think of more pressing matters; like not bleeding all over the carpet. 

So instead he moves and proceeds to bleed all over the bathroom and counter. By the time he is finished cleaning and covering the gashing scratch, he has ruined two towels and left a suspicious stain of the far right edge of the shower curtain. One can only hope that his dad doesn’t question it. 

His side still burns, but it’s growing into a dull throb that eases as Stiles busies himself in getting ready and getting to school. It’s still another normal, or abnormal, day. Nothing can be quite normal when your best friend is a werewolf. 

Yet with every randomly timed throb of his side, Stiles can’t ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s like a foreboding, a tickle of wrongness in the very back of his mind. He heads out the door none the less, pushing the feelings to the side and promptly ignoring them. After all, it’s what he does best. 

\----------

“You smell like blood.” Of course that would be the first thing out of Scott’s mouth when Stiles meets him in front of the school that morning. He almost berates himself for not thinking about the fact that werewolves have the whole epic sense of smell thing going for them. Not to mention the fact that his best friend happens to be a werewolf, so of course he’d be able to smell Stiles blood from a mile away. Of fucking course. 

There isn’t much to do on the issue, shrug it off and try to avert Scott’s attention seems like the best bet. But Stiles just smirks and tries laughing it off. “Got a few scrapes running for my life through the woods,” he says. “Same old, same old.” 

The tension in Scott’s shoulders seems to relax and Stiles releases a breath. No need to get anyone worked up over a silly little scratch, deep or not. It isn’t like Stiles needs people looking at him like some fragile little girl. Sure he’s human. He gets beat up, knocked around, broken, but he can take it. Sort of comes with the job description of being best friends with a werewolf. It’s not something he can’t handle, and he doesn’t need anyone thinking as much. 

“What happened anyway?” They make it to their lockers, well Scott’s at least. Stiles doesn’t bother much with lockers; not when he can fit just about everything he needs in his backpack, and borrow anything else from Scott. “I just get a text from Derek asking if I‘ve heard from you, and then nothing from you till this morning” 

Once upon a time Stiles would have been thrilled that Scott and Derek were actually talking to one another in a civil manner. Ecstatic in fact, and he has been since Scott joined the pack. Up till this point Stiles hadn’t had an issue, at least not until he became one of those things Derek seemed to be talking to Scott about. 

Huffing, he falls back against the lockers with a metallic rumble. _Might as well give the skinny_ , he thinks. What could it really hurt at this point? If Scott didn‘t hear it from Stiles, then he‘d surely hear it from Derek, if not Erica. “Dad got a call last night. People really should learn to contain their emergencies to daylight hours. Or evil just needs to learn to sleep. There was some disturbance, a wolf…” he trails off here, looking to Scott who seems rather interested, which is something Stiles supposes. “Well, Dad leaves and I sort of panic. Full moon and all. Couldn’t believe it was an actual wolf. Can’t be that lucky. That’s why I texted you. You haven’t wolfed out during the full moon since you joined the pack, so I wasn’t too worried about it being you. Had to make sure though.” 

“It’s fine,” Scott says, like he needs to accept some unsaid apology. 

“I texted Derek next,” Stiles continues, as if never having been interrupted. “Bastard just tells me he’s taking care of it. Like that settles my nerves at all. Next thing I know, I’m out the door and driving. I’ll admit, not my most ingenious moment, but I’d rather I be the one to run into a werewolf than my dad who has no clue they’re lurking out there. And of course I get just what I ask for. Man, Erica scared me before, but seeing her all fangs and claws? Not what I want to run into in a dark forest. She stalked me for a bit, and then Derek comes swooping in, knocking me on my ass. He better not be expecting a thank you. I’m going to be sore for a week.” 

Scott is laughing and shaking his head by the end of it. “You’re lucky that scratches and bruises are all you have. Erica’s a bitch when it comes to getting her claws in you. I hate it when Derek puts me up against her during training.” 

That’s an understatement. Stiles has seen some of the scratches Erica has left on Scott, the few times Stiles bothered to tag along for ‘ _training’_ sessions. Even if Scott healed quickly enough, it wasn’t a pretty sight. 

“It’s fine. I came out of it just peachy; like a cat. Nine lives and all.” Perhaps cat isn’t the best thing to compare himself with when dealing with werewolves, but what the hell. Stiles can roll with it. 

For a moment Scott looks almost skeptical but in a blink of an eye it’s gone, replaced with a small smile that Stiles knows far too well. Thank god for small favors, for around the corner he sees Allison walking toe to toe with Lydia. Stiles can breath easily knowing the conversation is over, Scott pushing it out of his mind in favor of happy hormonal Allison thoughts. It’s puppy love in the most literal sense. Stiles can’t even laugh about it. 

“Boys,” Lydia says as they pass. It’s almost sad how Allison makes it a point to ignore them, sparing Stiles a small smile that he knows would have been targeted towards Scott if only she could. 

Stiles grins, big and bright. “Hey Lydia, Allison.” 

They continue down the hall, falling into the throng of student’s bodies. Scott is now wilting beside him and when did everything begin falling apart? Life was so fucked up. The having a werewolf as a best friend thing was the least of Stiles problems at the moment. And when did that even happen? Now Stiles is up to his neck with kanima, psycho hunters, and realizing his hometown is a monster magnet. 

“Come on, buck up. We’ve got practice, and you’ll see her tonight.” Stiles slaps Scott on the back, the only reassurance he can give, short of pulling out the hug card. It seems to do the trick at the very least. One of them has to be in high spirits. Not when Stiles knows the world of hurt he’s going to be in during practice. 

By the end of today, he has a feeling he’s going to need Scott returning the favor. 

\----------

Practice is hell. Stiles spends more time with his back on the field and looking up to the clouds than actually doing the drills. It’s a pretty day, and he’s pretty sure there’s a bunny shaped cloud that turned into a dolphin. Informing Coach Finstock of this earns him the bench and Stiles isn’t too displeased with this. 

As far as miracles go, his side isn’t half bad. He’ll have to rewrap and clean the wound after his shower and before going home. Preferably after Scott has left. During lunch Stiles had snuck into the nurses office and borrowed some gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. They would do the trick. 

“Long night?” 

And here it goes again. Isaac sits next to him, devilish grin and all in place. Stiles wonders if this is going to be the topic of choice for everyone he talks to today. 

“I’m sure you already know the answer to that,” he says, pulling off his gloves and placing them and his lacrosse stick between himself and Isaac. There is a message in the action, one that Stiles prays to get across, but there isn’t much hope in it. Isaac just continues to lean across the space, looking inclined to talk this out. 

After a moment Isaac pulls back, shrugs his shoulders and pops his neck. “Erica’s sorry you know.” There is a flippancy there, like he doesn’t really care about it one way or another, but feels the need to speak it none the less. “Derek roughed her up quite a bit when he caught up with her. I don’t think he was too happy with situation either. She’s still healing.” 

That would explain why Stiles hadn’t seen her in any of the classes they usually shared. “She actually said sorry?” 

Isaac actually looks a little sheepish then. “Not in so many words, but the meaning was there.” Which sounded about right. 

“Well tell her to rest easy. No grudge has been held today. I still have all my limbs and control over my bladder functions. No harm done,” he says, sharing a laugh between himself and Isaac before Coach seems to catch wind of possible fun times happening off the field and calls them back. 

Stiles whines but somehow gets through five more drills, and six laps around the field before finding salvation in the locker room showers. He’s the last to get in, the throb in his side slowing him down and keeping him on the field while the rest of the team had disappeared. It’s the way he wants it. Scott is rushing to tug a shirt over his wet head of hair, muttering a quick good-bye as he does so. A group project in Chem. means he’s being forced to have interactions with Allison. Or so that’s what is being told to the Argents. It’s a date as far as Stiles is concerned, but he’ll keep that to himself. 

The showers are thankfully vacant, although probably long since running out of hot water. Stiles doesn’t mind, preferring cool water to wash over his damaged side than anything too scorching. He pulls off his pads and gear, placing them on a bench and then starting on his shirt and under-armor. Fresh air feels good on his heated skin, goosebumps trailing up his back and down his arms. He shivers, looking down at the white plain of gauze taped to his waist. 

With careful hands, he peels away at the medical tape. It’s just like ripping off a band-aid. _Just more of it_ , he thinks sardonically. The bandaging is crinkled up into a messy ball and promptly tossed away. Stiles doesn’t want to see just how much blood, because there is no way there isn’t, has seeped into the layers of white padding. 

It’s a nerve-wracking process. He breathes in deep and looks down to his side, hoping this morning was a deluded dream on his behalf. And what he sees is pleasantly not what he had expected. The scratch is there, all claw marks, but it has since receded in its swelling. The cuts are clean, and a healthy color; no longer red and angry. They are scabbed, but not disconcertingly so. Stiles is not a doctor, but even he can surmise that this is a good sign. 

He is healing, and probably has little worry of infection. Scarring even seems implausible at this point. It’s enough to put a smile on his lips, and he finds a little bounce in his steps as he makes it into the shower. There is still need to clean and cover the scratch, but just knowing it is healing is enough for Stiles at the moment. 

The water is cold, more so than he had originally planned, but it works. He’s in and out in record time, but somehow feels even more refreshed for it. Toweling off, Stiles snags some sports tape from Finstock’s office, it’s not like he’ll notice a few inches missing, and begins working on recovering his side. The alcohol and gauze are pulled from his backpack, and splayed out on the bench. 

Stiles grits his teeth as the alcohol nips at the few areas of the scratch that are still slightly open. It’s not as bad as this morning, but it still stings. Quickly, he dabs the surrounding area dry and places the squared pieces of gauze of the wound. The blue sports tape is adhered, and that is that. All done, and looking good. If Stiles can say so himself. 

Everything is quickly packed up, excess gauze thrown and the alcohol capped and back in his bag. Stiles looks around once more, before slipping on a pair of boxers, his jeans, and a plain green t-shirt. He feels good, relaxed and rejuvenated. There is barely an ache in his side, and his muscles are feeling well used but not painfully so. Amazing what a good workout, plus shower, can do. 

There is a little prickle of something in the back of his mind, a precognition to something foul, but nothing that Stiles can put his finger on. He shrugs it off, and slings his backpack over his shoulder. Why ruin the mood by dwelling. Things are good, so he does not worry. He doesn’t see the need. 

\----------

It’s well after four, pressing five, when Stiles makes it home. The driveway is empty, his dad on duty, and Stiles doesn’t have the heart to wonder just what case probably has his dad running around in circles. There is too much guilt there, knowing that every answer his dad is looking for is tucked away with his son. Stiles can see what all his lies are doing to his father, and that’s all he needs to feel that cold twist in his gut. Things would be so much easier if he could just come clean, but there was more than just himself to worry about. It wasn’t just his secret. 

The house feels empty when he makes his way inside, but it isn’t something he’s so unaccustomed to. He’s quick to fall into a routine; shoes off by the door, backpack dropped on the first step of stairs, and Stiles makes a quick line to the kitchen. As is customary, during that odd time between lunch and dinner, Stiles finds himself hungry. He’ll always blame it on practice, and also on the fact that he’s a growing boy. Probably the reason why he’s now forced to do most of the grocery shopping. You empty the pantry, you fill the pantry. 

Pilfering through the refrigerator and pantry, Stiles unearths a jar of peanut butter, the chunky kind, and some strawberry jelly. Nothing like a good old PB and J sandwich. The bread is already on the counter, and Stiles slides it along to collide with a muffled thump against his gathered ingredients as he grabs a clean plate from the dishwasher. 

Stiles gets to work, his stomach seemingly not able to wait. It growls, sounding eerily close to that of the werewolves he calls friends, albeit some reluctantly. A laugh escapes him as he pulls four slices of bread, plus the neglected heal, from the bag, placing them on his plate and slathering them up. He ends up with two sandwiches plus a half; the heal folded over upon itself. It’s a PB and J taco, and no one will ever be able to tell Stiles otherwise. 

The PB and J taco won’t last the trek up the stairs. It’s already half eaten by the time Stiles shoves the remainder of it into his mouth to free up his hand and snatch his backpack. Taking two stairs at a time, he pushes through his bedroom door; backpack thrown to the side of his desk and plate more gently place beside his Macbook. 

He’s got homework, but nothing that needs his immediate attention. It allows him some time to unwind and relax. Maybe he can do some research of the supernatural kind, or just actually do something normal for once and get caught up on one of his online games. Unfortunately the latter seems out of the question. A quick plop then spin in his desk chair has him coming face to face with Derek. 

A heart attack wasn’t something Stiles had down on his to-do list, but seeing Derek Hale wasn’t penciled in either. Stiles manages a frown, focusing on that opposed to his racing heart. The man has a natural talent as a creeper, like in the future Olympic gold medalist sort of way. He’s pretty sure Derek’s the type of man mother’s hide their children from. 

“One of these days I’m going to actually lock my window. I’m determined to break you of this one way or another, mainly for the sake of my physical and mental health. It’s all repetition, repetition; you’ll learn eventually.” Derek doesn’t even humor him with a glare, his face stays all serious and stiff. It buffers Stiles’ mood and he instantly deflates, looking a little more resigned than he’d like. “Seriously. There is a thing called a door, or better yet, a phone. Doesn’t take much to send a text… anything to give me a heads up that you’re going to be playing Creepy McCreeper in my room.” 

That earns Stiles a small snort and the shake of Derek’s head. It’s enough and it pleases Stiles a little more than it should. He covers the smile he feels growing by taking a quick bite of a slice of his sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches always seem to hit the spot. Now they also seem to serve as a means to ignore grumpy werewolves. 

Unfortunately, Derek didn’t seem to like being ignored in favor of peanut butter and jelly goodness. The plate is quickly snatched out from beneath Stiles’ nose and is halfway across the room before he could holler a protest. Instead Stiles can only settle a glare on Derek as he sits far too comfortably on Stiles’ bed and examines the after school snack for himself. 

“You can’t go stealing a man’s PB and J!” Stiles squawks indigently. 

Derek can only send him a rather unimpressed look and leaves it at that. He seems far too interested in the sandwiches, and Stiles almost yells when Derek begins finishing off what’s left on the plate. 

The plate is polished off, not even a piece of crust surviving the onslaught. Let it never be said that werewolves weren’t little pigs when it came to food. Scott could probably devour a whole cow if given half the chance. It almost scared Stiles at times. What if he ever came on the menu? And the punch line there, was that just last night it had really been the case. 

After another moment of silence, Derek finally opens his mouth, and Stiles thinks that perhaps they are finally on their way to getting to the point. One step closer to getting Derek back out the window and out of Stiles’ house. “You don’t strike me as a crunchy peanut butter person.” And that really wasn’t what Stiles was expecting and what is he even supposed to say to that? 

“Is that a problem?” 

Derek just shrugs and places the empty plate next to him on the bed. “No.” There’s a pause, and Stiles thinks that’s all he’s getting. “I like it better myself.” 

Stiles never does know what to do during these rare moments when Derek lets slip that he not actually a violent creeper werewolf all the time. It’s almost hard to see him having normal aspects of his life, like having a preference in peanut butter, liking Dr. Pepper over Coke, or even which breakfast cereal he prefers. It’s enough to remind Stiles that Derek is human in many aspects, and that right there gives him pause. 

“Why are you here?” Stiles sobers quickly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter before his mind goes gallivanting off to god knows where again. “Besides to eat my sandwiches.” That Stiles can’t help but pointedly add. 

Silence stretches on, and Stiles watches closely. Derek looks unconcerned, face blank. There is a faint _thump-thump_ that Stiles vaguely registers. It’s even, but growing more frequent, and he wonders if it’s his heart. There is something unsettling about the sound, but before Stiles can focus fully on it, Derek is opening his mouth and speaking. 

“I needed you to look into something for me. Figured you could get me the information quicker than having Isaac or Boyd.” Derek says. 

The _thump-thump_ stutters, almost unnoticeable, but it startles Stiles and suddenly the spell breaks and the world at large comes swimming back to him. It’s almost like coming out of a dream and he shakes his head. Everything seems wrong, in that way where his skin feels almost too tight, and Stiles can only stare with furrowed brows at Derek. 

With a sureness that leaves him reeling, Stiles accuses Derek with wide eyes. “You’re lying!” He doesn’t know how he knows, just that it is so. 

The out burst seems to startle Derek. He looks a little off kilter, mouth opening before closing with a sharp click. He’s frowning, a look Stiles sees far too often now. That look that seems to be trying to piece together the enigma that is Stiles. Truth be told, Stiles doesn’t like the look, especially when it’s laced with suspicion like it is now. 

All false pretenses seem to melt from Derek, and he’s standing now, looking serious and all business. “Did you get hurt last night.” There is something more to those words. Something that Derek isn’t saying.

Stiles just looks up annoyed. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.” He’s extremely glad for cleaning the scratch before coming home. With how it’s scabbed over, there is little worry of Derek smelling blood outside of the smell of soap and disinfectant. “Really, I’m fine.” And thank god that isn’t a lie. 

Derek’s still looking at him skeptically. He shifts his gaze from Stiles and then to his own hands, flexing them under his scrutiny. It’s an odd action, almost thoughtful, but Stiles disregards it as just another weird Derek thing. 

“Next full moon,” Derek begins after a moment. “Stay inside.” 

Stiles can only scoff at that. “Maybe next time, don’t let your pups out for midnight strolls to scare the townsfolk.” 

Of course Stiles doesn’t get a reply to that, just a simple nod and another order to hold himself up in his room next month. It’s pointless, Derek must know this. Stiles isn’t going to listen to him if it’s a matter of life or death. But Stiles lets Derek leave thinking that he might be smart for once and listen to reason. 

As Derek slips through the window, slipping it shut behind him, Stiles can only sit and watch. For a moment he contemplates going through with his threat and actually locking his window for once. Seconds pass in silent debate. He almost gets up, and is half a minute away from hurrying over and following through. It’s then that the sinking feeling in his gut settles in and he leans back further, putting more space between him and the possibility of locking the window. Locking it and keeping Derek out. With a twirl of his chair, and without a second thought, Stiles puts his back to the window and sets his sights on his computer; he has homework to do. Preferably before his dad gets home. 

Behind him, he allows the window to remain unlocked, giving Derek a means of entrance, and Stiles doesn’t spare the time to wonder why.

__________  
 _To Be Continued . . ._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent all day yesterday finishing this. Don't think I've written so much in one sitting in so long! Really enjoying writing this, so that's good. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you for the wonderful feedback! I hope you continue to enjoy this fic. ♥

2.  
__________  
The weekend came with the sharp shrill of the last bell, Stiles shooting from his seat with a little more exuberance than what is probably needed. It earns him a few odd stares, two of which come from Lydia and Scott. He doesn’t really care, it’s the weekend, two whole days of doing nothing but being lazy. 

_Hell yeah!_

Coach is even out with the flu, practice inevitably being canceled. No practice, means Stiles can head straight home and tack on an extra two hours onto his break. He turns to Scott, smiling broadly as they make it out of their class and into the packed halls. 

“I’m thinking me, you, our body weight worth of junk food, and Lord of the Rings, extended versions. Tonight, my place. I won’t be taking no for an answer.” Stiles is too busy focusing on the excited skip in his own step to catch the falter in Scott’s. He eventually slows when it seems like Scott isn’t quite keeping up with Stiles’ enthusiasm. 

Scott stops altogether and Stiles can already feel the heavy weight of disappointment filling his gut. It isn’t hard to guess what comes tumbling out of Scott’s mouth. “I can’t,” he says. “Derek wants us training. Especially with what happened with Erica. I don’t think he wants a repeat.” 

So, okay, it makes sense. Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of this past Wednesday either. Who honestly would? But that doesn’t keep it from being any less disappointing. “So why do you have to go? Aren’t you like, the poster child for in control?” He has to ask, has to hope that he’s found the loophole and that they can both continue on their merry way towards MSG’s, caffeine, and Hobbits. 

“Derek wants us all there. It’s a pack thing.” 

And of course it is. It’s always a pack thing. Stiles should be used to this by now, but it still doesn’t change the fact that it sucks. For a moment he contemplates inviting himself. He has always been welcomed well enough to the meetings; Derek usually doesn’t acknowledge him more than nodding in greeting, so Stiles assumes it’s fine so long as the Alpha has no qualms. Despite this, Stiles stays quiet. He’s more likely not to go on principle now. 

“Well, have fun trying to rip each other’s livers out,” he quips, which earns him a comforting hand on his shoulder. Something he really doesn’t want, and especially not from Scott. 

The earnestness in Scott’s eyes is almost annoying, but Stiles finds it within himself not to shrug the friendly touch aside. “Do you want to come with?” Scott asks, and Stiles really wishes he hadn’t. 

“Nah, man, I’m good.” Stiles moves out from Scott’s reach, heading out into the front lawn of their school and towards where he’s parked his Jeep that morning. “I need to brush up on my Gollum impression anyways.” He quickly spews out a rather bad rendition of ‘ _my precious_ ’ that leaves both himself and Scott chuckling. 

“Looks like they both finally lost it.” The comment has both of them sobering quickly enough. Stiles sends a miffed looked over his shoulder to where Erica stands cockily next to Isaac. 

It’s the first time Stiles has seen her since Wednesday night, and his body is instinctively tensing; the fight or flight reflex scratching at the back of his mind. He quickly shakes it off and turns to fully face the two werewolves. “Hey there, Erica. Good to see you. Relatively.” Stiles finally says, words coated with bravado. 

Scott shifts towards them, just as Boyd makes his way over. This is the pack, all drawn together by some invisible force that makes them one. There is a moment were Stiles feels inclined to move closer, to be a part of that. It’s a twitching in his muscles, a pull deep within him. It’s there and gone in an instant, and Stiles is left feeling naked and empty without it. 

“It’s good to see you too Stiles. Although this atmosphere isn’t preferable.” Erica stalks closer, all pretense and intimidation. Stiles won’t be fooled by it. “I’m rather partial to moonlit strolls. Aren’t you?” 

“So, anyways, the gangs all here. And I’m sure you’re all revving to go chase poor Bambi and Thumper through the thicket, so I think I’m going to head out.” Stiles pointedly ignores Erica, he doesn’t need to have her baiting him, let alone taking said bait. He’s not scared of her. He’s not afraid of what happened in the woods. Last thing he needs is to give her that impression. 

It’s Isaac who speaks first, looking slightly surprised. “You’re not coming?” Talk about stating the obvious. 

“No, I’m not, but don’t let that stop you from having a blast.” Stiles is already turning around, making his way towards his Jeep. He’ll see Scott later, probably tomorrow if he’s lucky, and he’ll get the rundown on the meeting then. But for now, he has plans, normal, non-werewolf plans. 

He’s already at the door of his Jeep when Erica’s laugh has him halting. He knows what‘s coming; the inevitable jibe. He listens and waits for it. “Seems like someone’s scared of the big bad wolf.” And there it is, the tone is lightly mocking, and Stiles really isn’t in the mood for this. 

“Do I scare him now?” Erica then says, voice softer.

It’s those words that have the irritation within Stiles deflating. He puffs out a breath and turns quickly on his heel. The pack is a good distance away and he finds himself speaking just a little louder than normal to catch their attention, unnecessary as it may be. 

“I’m not scared of you, nor will I ever be scared of you. I just really do have plans tonight.” And it isn’t until four sets of heads turn sharply towards him that Stiles suddenly realizes that something is not right here. Erica is pulling away from Isaac, seemingly having just been talking quietly into his ear. Stiles shouldn’t have been able to hear that. Even if they had been talking at a normal level, it would have been difficult. 

Scott looks a little surprised, and perhaps more shaken than the rest. “How’d you…” But he trails off, and Stiles doesn’t feel inclined to stick around much longer. He’s feeling unsettled, and really doesn’t want to look too far into this. Doesn’t want to start putting things together. 

“Lip reading. Awesome right?” It’s probably the biggest load of bullshit that’s ever tumbled out of his mouth. Hell, he had his back to them when Erica had been talking, but he doesn’t give them much time to point that little fact out. In seconds he’s within the safety of his Jeep, and pulling out without too much of a backwards glance. He sneaks a peek, the pack is still staring at him; all of them looking vaguely confused. 

On the ride home, he makes it a point to forget this ever happened. There is left over pizza in the fridge and an unopened bag of Doritos with his name on it. He’ll drown himself in food, watch movies until his mind is numb, and put all of today behind him. 

\----------

It’s halfway through _The Two Towers_ that Stiles finds himself with an unscratchable itch. He needs to move, to get out of the house, to do something! His foot alone has been twitching for the past hour, and the amount of soda he’s had is probably not helping. Stiles feels wound tight and finally he’s forced to pause the movie and get the hell out of dodge. 

It’s dusk, the moon already in the sky, and the sun past the tree line. He pauses at the door, looking back into the house. His dad is in his office, and probably won’t notice if Stiles slips out for an hour or so. Still, he thinks that his father deserves a little heads up on what his son’s up to, so Stiles leans back in through the doorway, and yells into the house. 

“Going out for a bit.” Is all he says, and can’t help but smile at his father’s reply. A simple “be careful” and really, that’s one thing Stiles strives to do for himself, but always fails spectacularly. His life is anything but careful. That’s just not something he needs to be telling his dad. 

Stiles bypasses his Jeep, feeling the need to stretch his legs, and hopefully calm the jitter in his limbs. It’s been a long while since he’s walked the streets of the small suburb he lives in. The air is cool, crisp, but dry. Thank god it’s dry. Last thing Stiles wants is another adventure in soggy cold socks. He swears he’s still trying to work feeling back into his pinky toe. 

_Walks are nice_ , Stiles thinks. It’s been awhile since he’s been able to walk and not have to worry about something stalking him or being prepared to race for his life. This is peaceful, and it allows Stiles to let his mind wander and think. 

Stiles thinks about the past year. He thinks about Scott being bitten, and about Derek Hale. Lying to his dad is a sore spot for Stiles, and he tries not to think on that for too long. Jackson is another subject Stiles rather not think on. He’s been having to deal with the kanima issue far too much as of late. 

Maybe thinking isn’t the best past time at the moment. He crosses over towards the woods as soon as he leaves the comfort of the suburbs. Normally Stiles would steer clear of them, not really wanting to court danger at the moment. Not so soon after the fiasco that was the night of the full moon. 

The thought brings his hand over the scratch mark at his side. And it’s really only a mark now. Two days later and the wound is almost halfway healed. That’s not normal, Stiles knows this and it’s only one thing on a list of items he’s trying very hard to ignore. They are small things, all of which he could easily write off as fluke or coincident. He can ignore them, along with the voice in his head saying ‘ _One’s an incident, two’s a coincident, and three’s a pattern_ ‘; which is ten times worse when it’s being said in his father’s voice. But there are inconsistencies from what Stiles does know that give him a reason to push the signs aside. He can ignore them, and maybe, in a months time, this will all be insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 

The sound of water startles Stiles from his thoughts. He’s been walking for a while now, he knows that, too caught up in considering what not to think to really know where he’s gone. It’s already dark, and far too similar to Wednesday night for Stiles’ comfort. The moon gives some light here; the trees not as thick. It’s disconcerting how far Stiles has walked without any real acknowledgement, just allowing his feet and instincts to guide him. 

Stiles assumes he’s by the creek that runs through the preserve, a boundary line between state property and Hale land. It’s farther west than the house itself, but a little closer to the road. Close but far enough to make the creek secluded and a little eerie. The sound of water keeps the forest from being silent and ominous, nothing like it had been a few nights back. In the distance Stiles can hear a frog chirping in the night. Whether it be a tree frog or of the more aquatic variety, he doesn’t know nor care, it doesn’t make it any less annoying. 

He’s so caught up in the nightly chorus, that he doesn’t register the new tempo until it’s creeping up quickly behind him. There is the leap of his heart, and Stiles is turning quickly towards the very obvious sounds of footsteps. How he missed them, he’s not sure. Too solely focused on nature, which now sounds oddly faint, his ears now too focused on the approach of what could possibly be a threat. 

Fingers twitch, and there is a tremor of something forcing him to keep his ground. Muscles are already pulled tight as if ready for a fight. The forest suddenly looks brighter and Stiles can see past the trees and instantly relaxes when he spots his stalker. It’s not as surprising as it should be to see Derek there, looking slightly exasperated at finding Stiles. 

“You‘re late,” Derek chastises. 

Stiles can only look slightly taken aback. Not entirely sure what he’s being accused of being late for and not really knowing why Derek is suddenly here, with him, of all places. “I wasn’t aware there was something for me to be on time for,” Stiles says, being sure to add a little snark to his words. 

Derek looks confused then, moving closer and Stiles isn’t liking the way his racing heart settles at the close proximity. “The meeting,” Derek clarifies. “Scott said you weren’t coming, but that’s never stopped you from making an appearance.” 

“I wasn’t coming.” 

“Then why are you here?” And wasn’t that the million dollar question at the moment. 

Why was Stiles here? Maybe because he can’t sit still to save his life and has ended up letting himself just wander. Something tells him Derek probably isn’t going like that answer; considering how late it is and what happened the last time Stiles had wandered around the woods. But when did that ever stop Stiles? 

“I was just going for a walk.” 

“A walk?” Derek repeats, not looking entirely convinced. 

“A walk. You know one of those things people do with their feet and legs? One step after another. Excellent means of transportation. Go places, see things…” Stiles quickly shuts his mouth at the look he is currently getting from Derek. It’s that look where it seems Derek doesn’t know whether to tear Stiles throat out or just walk away. 

“Dammit Stiles!” The curse has Stiles jumping back, which only helps Derek to better push Stiles against a tree, hard bark digging into his back and the heat of a body pressing to his front. “Will you ever learn? Don’t go into the woods alone at night!” 

_Well isn’t this fun, getting lectured like a child_. Stiles could only glare up at Derek. “What are you doing here then?” Because it’s a legitimate question. This is a far cry from the actual Hale house, and even further from the old rundown Railroad Depot. 

“Because this is where I had everyone meet.” It isn’t hard to see that Derek was quickly loosing patience. He’s towering over Stiles, looking all intimidating and badass. Really, it’s too bad that Stiles had long since been desensitized to Derek’s usual scare tactics. 

“And you decided to stay behind and lurk… Because?” Stiles shifts, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable as the heat of Derek bleeds through their multiple layers of clothing to seep into Stiles’ skin. He can’t look up and meet Derek’s eyes, he can’t move because he feels like he can only bring himself to curl further into Derek’s heat instead of inching away. 

Stiles knows Derek is staring at him, can feel the pierce of those calculating eyes. “I’m erasing the evidence of us having been here.” The suddenness of Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump, pushing further into the hard chest before him. A tremor rolls through his body and he inhales deeply. There is a moment of silence, neither of them moving; Stiles’ eyes wide with a dawning revelation of what he’s doing and Derek standing like a motionless statue. 

They part in a flash. Stiles trips back around the tree, falling on his butt and looking far too disgruntled. Derek just looks confused and a little unsettled but seems to brush it off like it’s an art form. There’s a sudden stillness that seems uncomfortable; even the too loud frogs in the distance don’t seem to register. 

It’s only the erratic _thump-thump-thump_ that Stiles can focus on, a sound that’s becoming far too familiar. The stressed sound of a heart beat, one that does not quite match the tick of Stiles’ own heart. His hand is to his chest, heart racing, but still slow against the pounding _thump-thump_ reaching his ears. So if not his then… 

Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s eyes. The _thump-thump-thump_ skips and ups its tempo, sounding harder and louder before settling down to an even and steady pace as Derek finally looks away. It’s confusing and so surreal, and Stiles can only tilt his head in wonder. 

“It’s getting late.” Once more, Derek’s voice makes Stiles jump. The spell breaks, and he can only blink the haze away. This is happening far too often to Stiles, and he can feel the scared flutter of his heart against the palm of his hand. He swallows and tries not to think about it. Tries not to look at Derek. He doesn’t want him to see the panic, the fear. 

“Right you are!” Stiles jumps up, all put on energy and good spirits. He brushes dirt and leaves from himself, and forces a smile the entire time. “Way past my bed time. Best be getting on my way. Have to get my beauty sleep, you know? These looks don’t happen on their own.” He’s babbling, perhaps it’s just a survival instinct of some sort; Stiles has never really bothered to think on it. Right now it doesn’t really matter, because Derek is looking at him with that look of annoyed amusement and things seem to be coming down to a more normal and stable level. 

It helps to ease Stiles’ discomfort, and he now feels relaxed enough to move closer to Derek. He swears he can still feel the phantom touch of Derek’s body heat, but Stiles chalks it up to being a little too hyper aware at the moment. There is one more awkward minute; Stiles standing there unsure if he should just leave or wait for Derek’s dismissal. 

In the end, he just decides to leave. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you later? Only hopefully not in any dark woods or alleys, and please not being a creeper in my room,” Stiles pleads, and perhaps it’s just a little too whiney. Not that he really cares. 

He gets all of a foot away before there’s a hand on his shoulder stopping all forward movement and Derek is pushing past to lead the way. “I’ll walk you home.” Is all Derek grumbles out, like it’s some annoying task. And really, it probably is in Derek’s humble opinion. Good thing Stiles isn’t interested in Derek’s opinion, humble or not. 

“Well, well… It seems chivalry isn’t dead. Who knew Derek Hale was such a gentlemen.” Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the sarcasm there. “I’m going to be the envy of all the single ladies when they hear.”

That last part earns a glare as a silent warning from Derek, and Stiles has to smother a laugh. Maybe he’s being a little too harsh? But seriously, he’s quite capable of walking himself home. He did get here on his own after all. Maybe it would take him a little longer to weave his way out of the woods, but he’d get home eventually! 

“Seriously, I can walk home without an escort.” He tells Derek as much. 

Derek answers with a growl and Stiles has to shake off the chill that runs down his spine at the sound. It’s starting to get annoying, all these odd little reactions he’s having towards Derek. Maybe he should get to bed early tonight and actually catch up on his sleep. Clearly it’s messing with his head. 

Resigning himself to his fate, Stiles obediently follows Derek. He keeps his head down, eyes to the forest floor, watching for exposed roots which were quickly turning into his archenemies. Stiles isn’t going to find himself tripping over another. They wouldn’t get the best of him. 

So of course, it only takes a few minutes before his foot catches on a rock and he tumbles forward. And of course he falls straight into Derek’s chest, strong arms holding him up. At this point Stiles would have rather of fallen face first into the cold November earth. He’s almost sure there’s some higher power laughing its ass off right now. 

Stiles breathes in the sour smell of sweat, along side an undercurrent of leather, earth, and vanilla. He sniffs again, begrudgingly admitting to himself that it’s pleasant. _Ah hell_ , Derek shouldn’t smell pleasant. Stiles shouldn’t even be thinking he smells good. Why is he even smelling him? _Oh god_ , he’s sniffing Derek. 

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles and launches himself away. He moves quickly forward, walking in no particular direction, just aiming to put some distance between himself and his dignity that he’s left behind to die a slow agonizing death. 

Derek calls out to him, very clear humor in his voice. “The road’s this way.” 

That halts Stiles. He looks back, sees the direction Derek is pointing, and heads back that way. Looking for all that he’s worth, that he was never going in the wrong direction in the first place. Fortunately Derek doesn’t say a word, even though Stiles is sure he’s still smirking, and thankfully they continue on their way; not another word being spoken between them. 

\----------

Stiles lays in his bed, curling into the cocoon of blankets and pillows. His eyes are glued to the window, half expecting Derek to come tearing through it at any given second. It’s been over an hour since Derek dropped Stiles back off at home, but he’s still wound, muscles all tight and tense. 

He can smell him. Can smell Derek all around him. Stiles’ hands reek of him, although reek wouldn’t be his ideal word choice. It’s not a bad smell, pleasant and comforting in ways Stiles can barely make sense of. It’s that which has Stiles on edge, fighting against his body’s need to relax and fold into the comfort the scent is providing him. 

Slim fingers curl tightly into his bedding, and Stiles tries not to breathe in deep, to smell Derek clinging to his hands. It’s almost as if he’s there, and Stiles is shifting his eyes up towards his window once more. Waiting to see a flash of red eyes, something to show that Derek is there. That it’s the man himself that Stiles is somehow smelling, and not the phantom scent clinging to him. It’s somehow a little less disconcerting. 

“I’m not doing this!” Stiles is suddenly up, pacing around his room in irritation. “This is all in my head. It’s all psychosomatic.” There is little reason why he should be smelling Derek in the first place, and maybe that’s what bothers Stiles the most. He’s been with Derek often enough, has touched him, without coming home perfumed in essence of Derek. “Oh my god, I just got skunked. Skunked by a werewolf.” 

It was about the only thing that made some semblance of sense that Stiles was willing to acknowledge. Okay, so maybe it didn’t make a whole lick of sense, but it was something more than what he had a moment ago. It doesn’t explain the inexplicable comfort Derek’s scent is giving him, but that is a can of worms Stiles is really unwilling to crack open. 

It might be months since the last time Derek has imposed real fear into Stiles, but he isn’t going to go so far as to say that he is comforted by Derek’s presence. At least not in non-life threatening cases. And pacing in his room is far from life threatening. 

He finds himself sniffing at his hands once more, jerking them away quickly. “Okay, I think I need to shower.” Stiles isn’t about to allow himself to sit around all night indulging in the smell of Derek. That is just a little bit too weird. The guy might be good looking, Stiles can willingly admit to that, but that doesn’t mean he can sit around snorting up another guys scent. There are lines that Stiles isn’t willing to cross into creepiness. He’s not Derek. 

The thought pulls a smirk up at the corner of his lips. No one could really beat Derek in creepiness. “Dude’s a grade A creep,” Stiles says to himself as he finally moves out of his room and into the hall. His dad is asleep, making stealth a must. It’s too bad Stiles isn’t ninja material. He knocks into the wall at least three times for no good reason, and bangs the bathroom door closed behind him. It is a valiant effort, just one doomed to failure. In times like these, it’s good that his dad can be a heavy sleeper. A habit he probably acquired from living with a loud son. 

Stiles showers quickly, scrubbing hard at his skin and taking care to afford some gentleness to the healing scratch at his side. He glances at it quickly, notes that it looks better than it had previously. It’s healing fast; faster than the nasty paper cut he got the week before. There is a special brand of obliviousness that Stiles uses to ignore that the bruises and scrapes he received along side Derek’s scratch have healed, no evidence of them having ever marred his skin being left behind. 

Things like that, Stiles finds, are better left ignored. Everything is fine, everything is normal. Well normal in Stiles’ sense of the word. Which means nothing is normal, and therefore everything goes. So yeah, with realities like that, is there even a need to worry? Stiles doesn’t think so. 

The shower is over and Stiles is back in his room, clean and smelling like soap, before he can think anymore on what an abnormality his life has become. Because really, who wants to think about shit like that when it’s-- He looks at the clock on his nightstand. Two-thirteen in the morning. 

He yawns, suddenly very tired and very ready to hit the sack. The pile of blankets and pillows look welcoming, and who’s Stiles to keep himself from temptation. Especially where sleep in concerned. He curls up tight, a mimicry of early that night. There is a discomfort there, something very much mental, as he curls in tighter, hands curling into fists right under his nose. 

There is only the smell of vanilla soap, sweet, far too sweet. Stiles can’t help but think it lacks something. A woodiness that brings back the reason for Stiles having showered in the first place. The thought is disquieting, but he’s far too tired now to fret over it now. It’s not his fault his brain if sending him conflicting emotions. 

Stiles presses closer, unconsciously searching for the scent that had eased away all the tension and stress, as he falls deeper and deeper into sleep. In the wake of the pungent sweetness, he finds a subtle undercurrent of what he’s quickly recognizing as Derek. When Stiles finds that, his whole body relaxes in his sleep and he doesn’t wake up till late morning. 

\----------

It’s almost noon when Stiles wakes. The sun is up too high and that in itself is odd. Stiles is usually an early riser on weekends, always has been and figures he always will be. Why sleep when there is so much to be done elsewhere? At least that’s how he’s always chosen to rationalize it. 

He yawns, stretches, and cracks a few kinks in his joints and back. It feels good, and Stiles thinks he’s more well rested than he’s ever been. Which is awesome. Really it is, but it’s Saturday. And really is there any reason to spend a day off from school laying around in bed all morning? Especially when he’s very much not sick or injured.

No, most definitely not! 

Stiles figures he might have broken a world record in the time it takes him to get dressed and head downstairs. His dad is home, watching TV and seemingly making the most of a weekend off work. Well, mostly off work. Stiles knows his dad will probably be heading to the station tonight, but at least they have the day. Which is something. 

“Hey sleepy head,” his dad calls, looking up from over the back of the sofa as Stiles comes into the room. 

Stiles just sticks out his tongue and moves into the kitchen. “I can sleep in as much as I want.” He huffs, and shuffles through the pantry. It’s late enough for lunch, but his tummy is wanting for something sweetly good in the breakfast variety. So brunch it is!

Three waffles are popped into the toaster, a glass of milk is poured, and sugar free syrup is thrown out onto the kitchen island. Stiles can’t really stand the fake butter he makes his dad buy, so he forgoes it and deals with only the sugar free syrup. Lack of butter is a small price to pay for his dad’s overall health. 

He pops his first dose of meds for the day, downing the pill with his milk just as the toaster snaps up with his slightly burnt Eggos. Everything is normal, almost quiet and a slightly standard morning. Well ignoring the fact that it’s working past noon now. 

The waffles are finished off well enough, but they leave him slightly less than satisfied. “When do you plan of having lunch?” Stiles calls from the kitchen. He could very well run straight into actually eating lunch, but if at all possible he’d rather sit down and eat it with his dad. It’s not often they get to enjoy meals together. Not with the craziness at the station, and the werewolf or kanima issues Stiles seems to be dealing with constantly. 

“We can hit Margie’s if you don’t mind me stopping by a few places in town before hand.” 

And that, right there, was why he loved his dad. It only takes them a half hour to get ready before they are out of the house and piling into Stiles’ Jeep. He let’s his dad drive, enjoying being the passenger for once. It’s a rather pretty day, the autumn air nice if not a little chilly. A small part of Stiles hopes that they get a bit of snow this winter. It’s always a gambling hope it seems. 

The shops in town are already decked out for Christmas. There are wreaths on doors and Christmas trees in store front windows. They driving into the older part of town, the historic district, with it’s town square and Courthouse at it’s center. Everything seems too festive, and Stiles wonders how much different this Christmas will be. His reach of friends has grown exponentially, and he’s pretty sure his pocket book will suffer for that. 

Stiles’ mind is still in a fuzzy pleasant state of holiday cheeriness when the Jeep is pulled next to one of the mom and pop hardware stores. It’s one his dad has been going to as long as Stiles can remember; the old couple who own it having watched Stiles grow with his dad’s every purchase. He remembers when Mrs. Renolds used to give him lollipops. Truthfully, Stiles now thinks it was only a ploy to get him to shut up, and quit asking what every little thing was for. 

The smile that has been slipping onto Stiles’ face is instantly stripped as soon as the car door opens, and a rush of cold wind hits him in the face. His reaction is sudden and seems to startle his dad. Stiles whips his head around, looking down the street behind him, following the very prominent scent of vanilla, leather, and woodlands. Breathing in deep, he takes a few steps forward, being pulled by what seems like an invisible string. 

“Stiles!” It’s his dad’s voice that seems to snap him out of it. There’s a very embarrassing moment where Stiles realizes that he has been sniffing the air, nose up and looking far too much like a bloodhound on the track of a fox for anyone’s real comfort. He startles back, looking at his dad and then back the way the smell is wafting in from. “Are you okay?” 

And no, Stiles doesn’t think he’s okay. Really, Stiles’ thinks he’s off his fucking rocker, but he’s not about to tell his dad that. “I’m fine. Awesome really. I think I might be hungrier that I thought. Swear I can smell Margie’s meatloaf from here.” 

It’s doesn’t seem like his dad is quite buying it, and Stiles is really just looking for an escape at this point. Because there is a very large part, extensively large part, of himself that needs to make sure that this isn’t what Stiles is thinking. He needs to prove that what ever this smell is, there isn’t one Derek Hale attached to the end of it. He’s really hoping that he’ll run into that boutique on the corner of Main and 5th and find that it’s their new winter fragrance being pumped into the air to drag in customers. 

Stiles really hopes it’s the boutique’s new fragrance. He might even buy it just to use it to make fun of Derek smelling like a woman’s perfume. And Stiles is spacing out again. His dad is staring at him slightly concerned and looking ready to drive them back home without lunch, no passing go, and certainly not collecting two hundred dollars. 

“I’m fine! Really!” Stiles backs up, putting some space between himself and his dad. “I’m just going to go… yeah. I’m just going to go see if that place has that thing I want.” His arms are flailing in the air, trying to portray some imaginary item. “You know, that one thing! I’ll be back!” And Stiles is running off down the sidewalk before his dad can say two words about it. 

He’s sure to take a quick and careful glance back, slowing his pace when he sees his dad walking into the hardware store, shaking his head as he goes. “That was close,” Stiles says to himself, letting out a relieved breath. He spins on his heal, almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk and moves quickly to catch himself. That would just be his luck, but Stiles doesn’t let that put him off his quest. 

Already he can see the boutique, and his heart is speeding up as he comes closer and closer. It’s an anxious excitement, a prospect of things actually turning out to be less than what he feared them to be. Woman with gaudy pink bags come in and out, and the smell only grows stronger as Stiles gets only a few feet away. 

He’s just about to reach the first full glass window of the store front when suddenly, almost too subtle for Stiles to have sensed it, the potency of the scent changes. It’s just a little less than it was, the change almost unnoticeable, but now that Stiles has realized it, he can not just un-smell it. 

Back tracking, Stiles finds the source of the smell. It’s most definitely not the boutique, but the used bookstore next door. Well isn’t that just a big slap in the face. “I hate you.” He makes it a point to look skyward before focusing back on the innocent enough bookstore. Which innocent it is not. Stiles is not going to be drawn in by the place’s harmless façade. 

So of course, Stiles finds himself walking into what will probably be the den of the lion. And why in the hell is he comparing a smell, a very nice smell, to that of a vicious predator? _Because_ , Stiles reminds himself, _stranger things have happened_. 

The bookstore smells old. Underneath the sweet woodiness, there is mold and the smell of ink. For a moment it seems almost overpowering, the combination of two such strong scents. Stiles sneezes, moving quickly through shelves and shelves of books. His feet are leading him again, moving without much prompting, seeming to follow the trail of sweetness. 

Further and further he moves, pushing past a rotting door and through a narrow doorway and back into a smaller room stuffed to the ceiling with old leather bound tomes. These books seem to have seen much better days. Some lack proper covers, and some look ready to fall to dust at the slightest touch. He happens to glance at a few of the titles. Most of them are novels that have little meaning to him, but some, a few of the more impressive and worn additions are occult or historical in nature. He recognizes some titles written in Latin, German, and some in languages of an unknown origin. 

Stiles feels his fingers itching to touch, the smell suddenly a distant importance. His thumb brushes caked on dust from a spine of a book on herbalism, old and with it’s gold details flaking off. The smell is back then, stronger than ever, just a moment before a very familiar voice has him jumping around in surprise. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

Derek is standing in front of him, looking just as shocked as Stiles is. “Oh my fucking god. Do you want to give me a heart attack and don’t answer that. You can’t pop out of nowhere and yell at people. I’m going to die of shock one day, and then what? Who’s window are you going to creep through then? Huh? I’ll tell you right now no one else is going to put up with that sh--”

“Stiles!” And that effectively shuts Stiles up mid rant. Derek is holding a stack of books, placing them down the next second and coming up far too much into Stiles’ personal space. “Why are you here?” 

And why does that seem like the most asked question in Stiles’ life at the moment? “Why are _you_ here?” His nose scrunches and just like the night before, Stiles is overcome with the smell that seems to be uniquely Derek’s. Once again, he finds himself pitching forward, moving into the warmth and comfort of the scent. 

Derek is the one to move back this time. His eyes flash read and Stiles feels the comfort drain away just as quickly as it has come. “Why are you here Stiles?” Derek’s voice is commanding and makes Stiles fearful in a way that it has not in many months. It’s a tone he’s only heard used on Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and sometimes Scott. 

Stiles finds himself shrinking back, compelled to please, to answer. “I don’t know, okay!” At least he can save some of his dignity and keep some bite to his reply. “It’s your stupid fault anyways. You reek man. Like I can’t be within a mile of you and not smell you. Take a bath, or lay off the Bath and Body Works will you? You’re worse than a skunk. Maybe not as bad smelling, but just as annoying.” 

“You followed my scent?” 

And that right there, hearing Derek say that, drives a nail home. Stiles tracked down Derek, by following his scent, something he should have never of been able to do. Something he hasn’t been able to do since… 

All color drains from Stiles face and he’s quickly backing up out of the room. “False alarm. Boutique next door, stinking up the whole town. Should be a felony. It’s been messing with my head. Breathing in too many chemicals and all that.” 

“Stiles…” 

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. Silly Stiles, running in and annoying you over nothing. My bad, won’t happen again. I’ll leave you to your reading. Might suggest you update your book clubs reading selection to something from this century, but who’s judging? I’m not. I’m just leaving and… bye.” Stiles is out of the backroom and practically running out of the bookstore in less than a blink of an eye. Finstock would be proud. 

It’s almost a blessing when he spots his dad leaning against the Jeep waiting for him. This is normal, this is something he can focus on. It’s just him and his dad, out running errands, going to lunch, and definitely not worrying or thinking about anything remotely supernatural. 

“You okay there sport?” his dad asks. 

Stiles just wants to scream ‘ _No, nothing is okay. Everything is wrong. My world is crumbling around me._ ’ but that would be admitting to something being wrong. And right now, in this moment, Stiles wants to hold on to this moment. To this one normal day, even if after today things might be a little more abnormal than they have ever been before. He swallows thickly, ignores the smell of Derek still surrounding him and smiles bright and happy for his dad. 

“I’m good. They were just sold out of my thing. I’m going to just have to come back later to get it. But food! You promised me Margie’s! I expect a chocolate milkshake, curly fries, and their double bacon cheeseburger!” 

His dad returns the smile and turns a hopeful look towards Stiles. “Don’t suppose you’ll allow me the same indulgence?” 

“Not a chance! I want you to live long enough to see your grandkids.” They both laugh, Stiles being batted on the back of his head as he moves around the Jeep to get into the passenger’s seat. This is how Stiles wants it, and he’ll hold onto it for as long as he can. For his dad’s sake and for his own. 

So for another moment more, Stiles sinks into his denial, and it’s never felt so good. 

\--------

The denial last the rest of the weekend. Which is something Stiles isn’t bargaining on. Scott comes over Saturday night while his dad is at the station. They play Battlefield, watch a few movies they’ve seen a dozen times over, and Stiles makes it a point to keep pack business off the table. Scott is wonderful and proves the point why he’s Stiles’ best friend by keeping the night werewolf free. 

When he leaves Sunday morning, Stiles busies himself with chores and homework. His dad comes home for lunch and stays till after dinner. They talk about Lacrosse and Stiles weasels some information out of his dad about how things are going at the station. It’s nice, laid back and a little more than Stiles could hope for. It’s been a relatively great weekend, and in the spirit of all things good that happen to Stiles, it comes to a fucking horribly epic end. 

Stiles goes to bed, like any other night. He pointedly does not check on the scratch on his side, and even more pointedly locks his window. Little good it will do him in the end, but it makes Stiles feel a little better. When he closes his eyes, he falls asleep without incident, curled into a ball, and hands pressed closely to his nose. 

It’s when Stiles wakes that his world officially crumbles. He’s standing, feet bare, in the middle of the woods. It’s cold, and he’s only in his flannel pants and thin night shirt. For a couple of minutes he can only blink and stare, disoriented and slightly panicked. “What the hell?” He’s in a part of the forest he doesn’t recognize, not that it being pitch black and in the middle of the fucking night helps much. 

The more he blinks and focuses his eyes, the better he can see, and at least that is some good news. Although the bad news being that it seems like he can add sleep walking to that long list of things that he’s trying to ignore. He tries to remember coming here, faint flashes of memory being all he has to work with. It’s almost like he’d been in a daze. He remembers leaving through his window, which, once again, “What the hell?” There is the feeling like it’s all been a really weird dream, but here he is, in the woods. Not really pointing at him jumping through a window and cantering out towards the woods being a dream. 

Everything is silent while Stiles focuses on his mini freak-out. It seems like his life grants him a few minutes of panicked reprieve until a howl cuts through the night. Stiles stills instantly, intent and waiting. He knows that howl, he’s not sure how or why, but he knows it. That warm sense of comfort and calm washes over him at the sound of it, a vast cry from when last he heard a wolf howl, on the night of the full moon. 

The howl comes once more, and Stiles finds himself taking an unknowing step forward. He glares down at his feet, taking a deliberate step back. It’s a pointless endeavor, he knows this, but at least now he can say he tried to stop himself. Before he can think better of it, he goes with his gut feeling and follows the path where the howl had come from. At the very least maybe he’ll find answers there. Answers he knows he doesn’t want, but ones he knows he can’t hide from forever. 

Twigs cut at his bare feet and arms, but the pain is gone as soon as it comes. The cold is a distant memory as he moves faster and faster through the woods, feeling impelled to run. So he does just that, racing with the night breeze rushing past and it is exciting; liberating in a way that Stiles can’t really put words to. It’s like breaking free for the first time, and he takes the feeling and the exhilaration with it. 

He’s not sure how fast he’s going, faster than he’s ever run before, that much is for sure, but all to soon it’s over. Suddenly he’s overwhelmed by what he knows now to be Derek. The smell of the man is all around Stiles and he knows, even if he can not yet see him, that Derek is just lurking within the dark recesses of trees. 

“I know you’re there,” Stiles calls, without even thinking about it. Because Stiles shouldn’t know he’s there. He shouldn’t even be out in the woods. Especially not at night, and very much alone. Derek has told him enough times before, but really, when has that ever stopped Stiles from doing anything. 

When Derek stalks out between two tall oaks, Stiles is not in the least bit surprised. In fact he finds it within himself to look slightly smug. Like, _ha! I so called it. You can’t hide from me_. Or something along those lines. 

“Did you track my scent here?” Derek is the one smirking now, all mocking and grim amusement. 

_Touche_ , Stiles thinks blandly. “No,” he ends up lying, or half lying. “Just thought I’d take another midnight stroll. Although really, I think we might need to stop meeting like this. People are going to start talking. Sheriffs son having nightly tryst with someone suspected of murder. Oh, I can hear the ladies at the bingo hall gossiping away already. My image of as a good respectable young man will be ruined forever. What ever shall I do?” He says the last part with a southern twang, and maybe that is over the top, but really it’s all just a diversion in one way or another. 

It doesn’t seem to dissuade Derek in the least, he’s sauntering up to Stiles, looking far too much like the predator he is. “Don’t you know why you’re here?” he asks Stiles, and just from the tone Stiles can tell Derek already knows the answer to that. 

“Late night cardio?” Stiles tries again and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to run out of quick witted replies. 

“Guess again.” 

“Frolicking with the fairy folk?” 

“Wrong.” 

“Cow tipping?” 

“Now you’re not even trying.” Derek looks a little put off, but his eyes only harden all the more. They flash red and Stiles stomach seems to twist into itself. “I called you here Stiles. I called you, and you came.” 

“Did you do some sleep walking hocus pocus over the phone? Cause really that’s quite impress--” 

Derek growls, cutting him off effectively if nothing else. “Do you know why a wolf howls? Do you, Stiles?” 

Of course Stiles knows why a wolf howls. He ran around with werewolves after all. It is one of those essential need to know things. Only now, at this instant, Stiles wishes he hasn’t the foggiest clue why a wolf howled. Ignorance was bliss, and sadly it wasn’t a bliss he was privy to. 

“Come on Stiles. I thought you knew this.” Derek prompts, and there is a tremor in his voice that sets Stiles on edge. It’s unsettling, and he finds the same unsteadiness to his own words when he finally speaks. 

“They howl to call their pack. To signal their location so the other wolves can find them.” The words feel like lead as Stiles speaks. Each word dropping from his tongue with a bitter taste. 

“I called you here,” Derek repeats, stressing ‘ _called_ ’ in a particular way that Stiles knows just what he actually means by that. “You heard me, and you came.” 

Stiles’ eyes go wide and he takes a few steps back. He laughs nervously as he goes, denial still fighting to stay in place even as it’s forcefully being torn away. “No…. no, that’s not…” There’s really nothing to say, and that in itself is infuriating. Stiles always can say something. Spin his words and get out of just about any situation, but no words are forthcoming this time around. His mouth is dry, heart pumping too loud and fast. There is a ringing in his ears, and he knows he’s on the edge of a panic attack, pivoting back a forth as if contemplating the fall. 

“Stiles!” Derek is close again, his sweet earthy scent wrapping around Stiles, calming him and luring him into a sense of security. He allows it, hand coming up to brace himself against Derek’s chest and Derek’s own hand comes to wrap around Stiles’ bicep, steadying him and supporting. “Did you get bit?” 

_Oh god_. Stiles is then feeling sick all over again. He feels like he’ll retch all over Derek’s feet if he isn’t careful. The world is spinning and he has to get away. Twisting to the side he empties his stomach with a horrible wet cough, choking on the bile. “No.” It’s all he can get out after a moment, and between dry heaves. “No.” 

Derek’s hands are suddenly on him, warm and sure as they pull and press against Stiles. They yank up his shirt and span out against his naked skin. Stiles knows what they are searching for, and he knows Derek will find it just moments before he does. Those warm fingers trace the slightly welted remains of the scratch. It’s hardly there. Hardly noticeable, but for that moment it seems like the most embolden proclamation. Like a death wish written out in red. 

“No.” Stiles tries for again, pushing away at Derek. It’s of no use, he’s already far too mentally and physically fatigued to fight. He doesn’t realize he’s crying, not until the smell of salt hits him. Knowing that, as a human, he should never be able to sense such a subtle odor has him crying all the harder. 

Stiles’ legs give out from under him and he falls to the forest floor, Derek easing him down as he holds him. Quiet whispers of, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” are given and Stiles wishes, really wishes that that could make all of this better. 

The only blessing is that Stiles can hear the steady beat of Derek’s heart. Through every apologetic word, Stiles listens. It might not be much, but not once does Derek’s heart stutter. That, at least, comforts him. It quiets his sobs, and calms his own racing heart. Now if only ‘ _Sorry_ ’ could actually make any of this better. 

“Yeah,” Stiles finally says. “I’m sorry too.” 

And if there is a little bit of resentment to Stiles words, he can’t really bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter a lot of questions will be answered and things will be better explained. 
> 
> I'll get working on that ASAP. So long as work isn't a butt and takes up all my time. lol. We'll keep our fingers crossed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to get back onto this fic. Work, with the holidays, has been killer. 
> 
> I've also revised and rewritten the plot. I did not like where this fic was going, so I backtracked and turned it back to the original plot I had in mind. I needed to have less Canon interference. 
> 
> I actually think I like this revised chapter much better. 
> 
> The first scene is the same scene I had in the original Chapter Three, but after that everything is different! Hope you like it even better!
> 
> Also I need a beta!!! Any takers please? 8D

3.  
__________

It’s been an hour, Stiles thinks, and he’s no less accepting of the truth now, sitting in his room, than he was the hour before, an emotional wreck on the forest floor. Derek is there, quiet but comforting in a corner of the room. Stiles doesn’t want him there, but it seems far too hard to voice that now. He has too many questions, and nothing makes sense, not when he adds it all up together. Too many holes in too many theories, leading off to one dark truth. 

“I’m not…” Stiles swallows, his tongue feels sluggish and heavy. “How can I be? It was just a scratch.” There hadn’t been a bite. Only an accident of Stiles’ own making. He wants so much to push all the blame onto Derek. It used to be so easy, back when he and Scott were still trying to categorize Derek as the bad guy. If something went wrong, all fingers could be pointed towards Derek. Simple as that.

Now, Stiles can’t bring himself to even try. When he dares to look up, glance half heartedly in Derek’s direction, Stiles can see the guilt there. It’s already too much. Stiles can’t pile anymore on top of what Derek already carries. The hard truth of it is, Stiles has no one to blame but himself. 

He shouldn’t have been running through the forest that night. Not with the moon full and knowing what dangers are lurking within the darkness. Like so many other times, he should have put a little bit more trust in Derek. Erica was a part of his pack; she was his responsibility, not Stiles’. There were more ways Stiles could have kept his dad safe if only he had thought to spare a moment to think things through. 

It really was nobody’s fault but his own, and he will have to lay in this bed of his own making. 

Picking up the pieces of himself, Stiles calms his racing heart and pulls himself back together. This isn’t him, he is stronger than this. It’s about time he proves that, not just to Derek but to himself. He will own up to the consequences, put on a brave face, and tell Derek just what he needs to hear. 

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles says. He can hear the erratic tempo of Derek’s heart, smell the bitter smell of anxiety, and it does nothing but further drive the point home; reminding him of just what he’s becoming. Stiles pushes those thoughts aside. “I shouldn’t have been there. You shouldn’t have to rescue me. I’m not some damsel in distress, although it would seem otherwise. We just need to mark this off as a hazard of the job.”

Derek isn’t looking at Stiles. His eyes are downcast, staring down at his hands. The sight is oddly familiar, a deja vu to the last time Derek was in Stiles’ bedroom. Derek flexes his fingers before looking back up, meeting Stiles’ eyes. There in no emotion to be seen there, on either of their faces, both of them trying to remain as closed off as possible. 

“I knew I smelled your blood on my hands. Why didn’t you tell me I hurt you?” There is anger entwined with an accusation, and Stiles feels the words like a punch. Derek is mad underneath the guilt. The issue here, or really it’s just another issue to add onto the growing list, is that Stiles had lied. Good intentions in the act be damned, Stiles still had lied to Derek and probably is now rubbing salt into the trust issues Derek already has. 

Stiles really can’t take much more of this right now. There’s just too much, and really, he just wants to be alone. Looking at Derek is just further cementing what Stiles is, no, not yet, it’s more what he’s becoming. But there are still things to say, and even more to figure out. He sighs and steels himself over. 

“It was just a scratch,” Stiles explains. “I didn’t think it was something to worry about. I’ve had worse and it was… healing.” Which oddly is the problem. “If… If it had been a bite. I would have told you.” It feels important to say this, to reassure Derek that Stiles had no intentions to hide things from him; not important things. 

“You should have told me.” 

And yeah, Stiles gets that now. He knows he should have said something, not that it really would make a difference. Derek doesn’t need to continue to drill that into his head, Stiles doesn’t need that now. “I get that!” He doesn’t care if it sounds a little too harsh; he feels he’s allowed to be. “What I don’t get is how a fucking _scratch_ is turning me into a werewolf!” 

It’s the first time the truth has passed through Stiles lips, and it feels good in a liberating sort of way. The denial is behind him, sort of, and the anger at the situation is just now boiling at the surface. A rumble follows Stiles’ outburst, and it takes him a moment to figure out it’s coming from Derek. It’s low, rough, and has Stiles’ tense muscles smoothing out and the anger mellowing out into a soft hum under his skin. 

“How’d you--” Stiles trails off, seemingly unnerved by his body’s unconscious reaction. 

Derek sighs and moves from the corner, making his way to take a seat in Stiles’ desk chair. He rubs his temples and Stiles doesn’t think Derek has any right to be the one getting a headache. If anything, this whole situation warrants Stiles a major pain in the ass headache for the clusterfuck his life is quickly becoming. Derek, well, he doesn’t deserve a headache, he just doesn‘t. 

“You’re pack,” Derek says, like that explained everything. Apparently the confuses is written all over Stiles’ face, because Derek continues to speak quickly enough. “You see yourself as pack, whether you consciously acknowledge it or not. And through default, you see me as your Alpha.” 

“Because you scratched me--” 

“No.” Derek cuts him off. “As a human, you were pack. That’s why…” And he pauses here, looking torn and guilt ridden. Stiles concludes that he hates that look on Derek’s face. “It’s rare, but not impossible, for a scratch to turn a human. If the claws get deep enough, the change can take, but still it’s not likely.” 

Okay, So this tells Stiles very little. He nods, but prompts hurriedly with his hand for Derek to continue. 

“It’s complicated.” The words come alongside a frown, and Derek looks a little unsure of how to proceed. “Lycanthropy is like a virus, I guess, if you want to label it, that’s transferred through an Alpha’s bite. You know this.” And Derek doesn’t bother to look at Stiles as he nods in confirmation. “It’s in the saliva. Something that attaches itself to human DNA, to blood, and alters the genetic structure. In small doses, say transferred through a lick to an open wound or a kiss,” Derek says and Stiles finds it curious how suddenly Derek is making an obvious effort not to look in his direction; eyes firmly on a very blank and boring spot of the carpeted floor. Stiles’ dirty socks are not that interesting. 

“You do know you’re making this sound like some STD or hell, HIV,” Stiles deadpans. 

“No, it’s not.” It’s almost funny how insulted Derek sounds. “Don’t make this out be worse than it really is.” 

Which is really a matter of prospective that Stiles doesn’t feel like arguing at the moment. Derek was born to this. Not thrown blind into the reality that is werewolves; _fucking werewolves_! It really makes you rethink what you think you know about the world. A real eye opener. Never mind that Stiles is just being pulled deeper and deeper into this mess that he wishes is not his life. 

“A scratch though, if deep enough, can turn a human. I’m not sure why, or if it’s just because it’s really the same concept as the bite, just diluted. It’s rare, like I said, and usually it won’t turn the human unless the body willingly allows the spread of the… _infection_.” The last part Derek says like he’s not too fond of using the term in relation to himself. Lycanthropy isn’t an infection, not to Derek, and Stiles knows this. If the situation had been different he would have countered the statement, but Stiles just stays silent. 

“You are pack. Your body sees itself as part of the pack.” Derek pointedly looks at Stiles; tries to make him understand. “You might not be wolf, but humans still feel the need to belong. It’s instinct, and your body accepted the change, and the solid connection it was given to the pack.” 

Stiles wants to challenge that claim. Yell at the top of his lungs that he’s not pack, that he never wanted to be pack. It’s not true, not being pack had always been a sore spot for Stiles, but denial and Stiles are good friends. It’s hard to break ties after so long together. 

“That’s all good and awesome, only really it’s not, but last time I checked, it didn’t take any of your pups this long to… change.” Stiles’ fingers trace the half healed marks at his waist. “Scott’s bite was gone over night. I just get these weird bouts of better hearing and having to smell your pungent wolfy ass. You sure this isn’t something else?” 

“No, this isn’t something else. A scratch just… Takes a little longer to take, especially this far from the full moon. Lycanthropy takes strength from the moon. You’ll fully turn as the moon cycle plays out. As for the smell…” Derek looks uncomfortable, and it doesn’t make Stiles a bad person to be pleased by this. Not with all things considered. He’s allowed to find joy in the small things in life, especially with this twist in his life. “You’re pack.” 

“Yes, I think we’ve cemented that fact by now.” There’s a little flutter of warmth in Stiles chest at the reminder that he belongs in the pack, something he has to grudgingly admit that he’s always wanted, just not in the context of how it’s happening now. 

There is silence and Derek is looking more tired than anything else. “Stiles, your pack and I’m your Alpha. You’re drawn to me, to my scent. I turned you, so because of that we have a… connection.” 

Yeah, Stiles gets that. He wants to ask what all this connection entails, but he gets it. More times than he can count, he’s seen the way Derek’s betas interact with him. He’s seen Isaac taking comfort from Derek’s presence, Stiles has first hand experience there as well, and he’s seen Erica curl into submission when face to face with Derek’s threatening growls. He understands it, but that doesn’t make it any less surreal, or any less unwanted. 

Nothing more is said for a hand full of minutes. The quiet is unbearable, and Stiles wants to break it out of habit. He’s usually the talkative one, and it would be humorous in any other situation to see Derek as the chatty one for once. Stiles swallows thickly and looks down at his hands fisted tightly in his lap. 

Tension begins to build within the silence. Everything weighs heavily down, and Stiles can feel it pushing down on him, crushing him. Derek’s words replay in his head and he thinks about just what all this means.

“Fuck,” Stiles curses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He childishly wishes that this is all just a bad dream. The worst of horrible nightmares. And then Derek is there, sitting on the bed next to him and allowing his sent to calm Stiles’ nerves; the bastard. 

They’re not touching, but they might as well be for all that Stiles’ body is aware of the warmth of Derek next to him. He shifts closer, their shoulders brushing. “This is really happening?” Stiles asks even if he really doesn’t want to hear the answer. 

Stiles can hear the rise in Derek’s heart beat, and the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. That will be something to get used to; all the pointless little sounds. “It shouldn’t be,” Derek says, and Stiles scoffs at hearing that. 

No, it really shouldn’t be happening, but it is. It’s real and it’s Stiles life. “I’m turning into a werewolf.” There is a disbelieving wonder in Stiles’ voice. It’ll never be easy to stomach that truth. “Don’t suppose there is something we can do to change that?” That is said seeped in bitter self loathing, and it only takes Stiles a moment to realize just what he’s said, what he’s alluding to. 

“Nothing I would agree with.” Stiles sputters, and tries to apologize, but Derek is looking at him with good humor despite the circumstances. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I haven’t wanted to kill you in months.” Somehow Stiles manages a smile. 

“Just months?” 

They both shake their heads, feeling a little lighter. It lets Stiles breathe a little easier. Against his better judgment, he thinks that maybe things might be alright. This might not be the end of the world. He turns to Derek, and bumps their shoulders together. It’s almost playful, but the tension is still there. “You know I don’t blame you?” It seems important to say it again. To make sure Derek is very much aware of this. 

“I should have been more careful.” 

Stiles snorts. “Still, not your fault. I’d take this over being dead.” Which was true. He likes life, likes living. It is amazing, and he is a little attached to it. Now Stiles will just have to figure out where to go from here. So he asks, “What’s next.” Because that’s probably something they should talk about. It seems important. 

“Does anyone else know?” There is a question there beneath the actual question; Stiles is certain of it. An unsaid ‘ _Did you just keep this from me?_ ’ being asked. 

“God, no.” Suddenly Stiles really doesn’t want to think about this. Scott comes to mind and that is not going to be a conversation he’ll be looking forward to. “I don’t suppose we can just not tell anyone?” 

Derek shakes his head. “You don’t have to tell anyone yet, not when you still smell human. But once your scent changes, they’ll know, and they’ll be upset you kept it from them.” 

“I know,” Stiles says. “I just need time, and then… Then I’ll tell them.” 

It’s early morning now, Stiles can see the sun beginning to light the scenery outside his bedroom window. He doesn’t realize just how tired and exhausted he is until Derek is standing. “I better go,” Derek says, but he doesn’t move closer to the window. 

Stiles’ dad will be home soon, give or take an hour or so. He’s not too sure on the exact time, but it’s has to be creeping onto five or so in the morning. It’s Monday, and there is school too. _Great, just great_. Stiles groans and falls back on his bed. 

“Leave me to my sleep. I only have three hours, if that, left.” Stiles hears Derek leave, and it’s unnerving just how long he can listen to Derek’s trek down the roof and across the lawn. Then there is silence and Stiles’ thoughts. Both of which he could do without at the moment. 

But there is also Derek’s scent, strong and fresh in Stiles’ room. He no longer tries to fight the comfort it gives him. It’s the smell of Derek and of belonging. It’s calming and Stiles settles back into bed. The comforter is pulled up and rearranged, his nose burying deep within a patch of blanket where Derek’s scent is the strongest. 

Stiles doesn’t bother to over think his actions because his body is lax and already falling into the hands of sleep. It’s nice, and he’s done more than enough thinking for one night, he can save the rest for later, or maybe for tomorrow. 

So Stiles sleeps, and, for once, he doesn’t worry. 

\----------

The next morning begins in a haze. Stiles feels almost dead to the world, and he’s pretty sure he looks like an extra from _The Walking Dead_. It’s not a glorious thought, but all zombie references aside, he’s just too damn tired to care. 

Somehow he makes it to the shower without passing out on his floor or in the hallway. His dad’s home, Stiles can hear him downstairs making coffee. It’s not until he’s in the shower, warm water raining down on him, that Stiles senses come flooding back to him. The bittersweet smell of coffee mixed with the chlorinated scent of tap water, the sound of mugs being knocked around in the cabinet, and the TV playing the morning news hit Stiles all at once. 

He startles, backing into the shower wall. There is a buzzing in Stiles ears that soon turns into a throbbing pressure before the bodily assault fades and he is left with only the consistent sound of water on cheap porcelain. 

It’s a slap in the face for Stiles. Very literally a, ‘ _Good Morning, you‘re a werewolf. Welcome to the first day of your fucked to hell life_ ‘, and Stiles really isn’t appreciating the thought. He feels like sinking down the shower wall and curling into a ball. Already Stiles’ body is trembling, and he wants so much to blame it on the quickly cooling water and not the edge of panic beginning to creep under his skin. 

Stiles ends up slipping from the shower without having cleaned an inch of himself. There’s a used towel on the doorknob. It’s damp, but only slightly, and Stiles can’t bring himself to care as he dries himself off. The scratch at his side is even less noticeable. A part of him wants it to fade, just like this bad dream he’s found himself in, but a much larger part of Stiles fears its disappearance. 

The scabbed flesh is the hour glass to Stiles’ humanity. It’s only been about four days since the full moon and Stiles figures he might just have a handful more before all evidence of the scratch is gone completely. It’s a disquieting thought, and not one he needs to be having on a Monday morning. 

There is school, his dad, and a slue of things that really need to take precedence at the moment. Werewolf crisis or no, didn’t mean that Stiles could ignore his grades. He was at least going to graduate high school. That was number two on his list of life goals, right under staying alive long enough to graduate. 

Stiles shakes off most of his earlier panic. It’s easier when his senses are muted and he makes an effort to dutifully ignore them. He focuses on dressing, trying not to notice how he can tell each article’s cleanliness without having to shove a shirt or pair of boxers right up under his nose. Perks of being a werewolf it may be, but not a pro he’s willing to currently acknowledge. 

He’s halfway through pulling on a half clean sock when his dad calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Hurry up and get your butt downstairs and have breakfast with me. I want to go to bed.” It was pretty much a custom of the Stilinski household. Stiles always made it a point to spend the mornings with his dad after the Sheriff had a night shift to work. The werewolf crap that has invaded Stiles life since Scott was bitten has not effected their morning custom, and Stiles wasn’t going to start ruining it now. 

“Be right down!” he calls back, hopping on one foot as he slips on his last sock. It takes only a moment to situate himself before he’s bounding down the stairs two at a time. Stiles doesn’t trip once, which he takes as a victory over his clumsiness, but which he refuses to associate with any werewolf mojo. 

There is turkey bacon and whole grain pancakes on the table, looking far too appetizing. It’s the smell of coffee, though, that catches Stiles’ full attention. His consciousness is still wondering around in a sleep deprived haze. He needs the caffeine. It would be a public offense to go without. 

Stiles takes the coffee black, without sugar and gulps half the cup down before he can make his way to the table. His dad is looking on in mild amusement, and pushes an empty plate across the table for Stiles to fill. 

“Long night?” his dad asks. Talk about a billion dollar question with no real answer that Stiles can truthfully give. Trust his father to throw that one out there when Stiles doesn’t even think he could explain how to make toast. 

He sort of gapes for a moment, mouth falling open and looking perhaps a little too caught of guard. It’s probably pointless to even try to lie at this point. His dad will see through it in a heartbeat, the tell has already been given. Stiles has waited a little too long to answer, and that, in itself, is quite enough. 

“COD Blops,” he says, going with the first thing that falls from his tongue. 

It does it’s job. His father seems a little too confused to be suspicious, and perhaps a touch concerned. 

“Do I even want to know?” 

No, probably not, Stiles doesn’t say, because it speaks too close to the truth of the actually issue here. Stiles’ father probably doesn’t want to know the truth, really, and so he continues to be fed lies. “Call of Duty,” Stiles begins to explain rather lamely. “Black Ops?” Like his dad really understands the significance of that, but Stiles supposes it sells the lie. 

Only it really doesn’t and Stiles has to turn away to not see the look of disappointment on his father’s face. Hears the deep tired sigh and the half-hearted, “Don’t stay up too late on that machine of yours” and he knows he’s only being told this out of some parental need on his dad’s part, and not because his father believes half of what is coming out of Stiles’ mouth. 

He knows thing will only get worse from here on out. Stiles’ predicament, as he will continue to call it; ignoring the reality of what is actually happening, will only cause more lies to build, and more things to not tell his father. Funny, how it seems so much easier to have been able to say ’ _Hey, my best friends a werewolf and I sort of run around with werewolves. It’s a real hoot!_ ’ than to look his father in the eye and say, ’ _Hey, I’m the werewolf_ ’. 

Stiles still has a hard time admitting it to himself. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says after a moment, and he hates how much he’s actually apologizing for. “Me and Scott were kicking ass and time sort of slipped away.” He shrugs and watches his dad clear away his plate. There is a stiff smile of Stiles’ dad’s lips, a little too tight to comforting. 

He gives Stiles an accepting nod and leaves the kitchen. The parting mumble is far too silent for it to be meant for Stiles’ ears. 

“Whatever Stiles, whatever.” 

It’s said with such a tired disappointment that it roots its way deep and painful into Stiles gut. He knows, a week ago, that he would never have been able to catch those whispered words. There is a tightness in his chest and he thinks that there is nothing he hates more in that moment than what he’s becoming. 

Breakfast is eaten in a sickening silence of Stiles own making, until he gets up and leaves for school. Not even is he able to bring himself to face his dad and say goodbye. 

\----------

Stiles’ almost falls asleep twice on his way to school. Once at the stop light at the corner by the used car dealership, and then again in the parking lot at school. It is Scott who wakes him, rapping harshly against the driver’s side window. 

“Dude! Get your ass up or we’re going to be late.” 

The rude awakening earns Scott a frown and a hiss as Stiles tries to stretch out his tired muscles. “Couldn’t you just let me sleep,” Stiles whines and reaches for his backpack. 

“And let you get to ditch class? What sort of friend would that make me?” Scott laughs and moves out of the way to allow Stiles room to slip ungracefully from the Jeep. 

“An awesome one?” Stiles is really beginning to rethink school altogether. Being emotionally and physically tired was not a good mix. He yawns, and tries to ignore that he can hear the even beating of Scott’s heart. 

It’s been four, almost five, days since Stiles was turned, and he wonders just how much longer he has before he’s growing fangs and flashing bright copper eyes. Each passing minute it seems like some sense is growing stronger. Stiles forces himself to ignore every little sound he shouldn’t be allowed to hear, every smell that shouldn’t be there, and focus of what’s normal. Or something close to the norm, not that his life affords him much. 

Scott is watching him intently. It causes Stiles to startle. “What?” he asks, suddenly aware that his own heart is pounding fast in fear. There is a moment where he worries that this is it. This is the moment when Scott finds out. Stiles waits for Scott to sniff the air, to sense the change that is happening too rapidly within Stiles. 

There is a moment of silence, and then Scott is sniffing him and Stiles feels his body go cold. “I can explain,” Stiles says weakly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

This causes a frown to cross Scott’s face, followed by a grimace. “Seriously? Gross! I don’t need to know what you get up to with Derek.” 

Stiles blinks, taken for a loop and left more than slightly confused. “Wait… what?” he questions and wonders just what Scott is assuming here. 

“You reek of Derek.” 

It made sense, Stiles supposed. He did frolic through the woods with him and then proceed to spend the remainder of the night together in his room with Derek. A small relief flooded Stiles. He could deal with smelling like Derek. That was the least of his worries. 

He shrugs his shoulders and turns to give Scott an unimpressed look. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I do. I was sort of with the guy most of last ni--”

Scott cuts him off with a shout. “No! I told you, I don’t want to know what you two do with each other at night.”

It hits Stiles then just what Scott is insinuating. He’s not sure whether to laugh or to just look as disturbed as Scott. Stiles ends up gaping and wondering in which alternate reality that it became possible to believe that he and Derek could even be a thing. 

“Scott, what the hell man?” Stiles is feeling close to laughing at the insanity of it all. “Why would you even assume that?” 

“The guy has a habit of spending more time sneaking into your bedroom than what’s considered normal.” Scott points out and Stiles really has to give him that one. Derek’s a creeper, everyone always seemed to agree of that, but Stiles doesn’t think he can get off guilt free either. Not once has Derek ever broken into Stiles’ room; the window has always been open. And that is all on Stiles. 

“He sneaks into your room too!” 

There is a pause, and then Stiles is leveled with a look that speaks volumes of the denial Scott is sensing on Stiles. They are already at the doors to the high school, students pushing past and ignoring their heated debate. 

Scott says, “He stopped sneaking into my room months ago,” and that seems to drive the point home. Not that Stiles hadn’t already settled on the bitter taste of defeat. 

“Still doesn’t mean anything is going on,” Stiles grumbles as they head in. 

It’s getting close to the warning bell, give or take ten minutes, and they hurry their way towards their lockers. Just because Stiles is tired, he knows none of his teachers will take that as an excuse for tardiness. Luckily it doesn’t seem like staying awake will be a problem. The chatter of the school almost seems deafening. Stiles can barely concentrate on Scott without trying to figure out why Lindsey won’t just hurry up and break up with Justin. High school girl gossip will now be Stiles’ downfall. He’s calling this one. 

There’s suddenly a hand of Stiles’ shoulder and his attention is drawn back to Scott. “Sorry man, were you saying something?” Everything comes snapping back like a rubber band and the chatter dies away. Stiles can still hear Scott’s heart, but there is a focus there that hadn’t been before. Maybe that’s the key. Don’t let your focus wander. Stiles was screwed if that was the case. 

“I was just asking what Derek had wanted, but you okay? You look like shit.” 

Stiles tries to shake off his fatigue, and then the unsettled knot in his stomach. The _click-click-click_ of the clock comes to Stiles attention and he knows that it’s four classrooms down. To far for humans to hear at this distance. Fuck this, Stiles just wants to be deaf for the next several hours. His eyes dart further down the hall towards the bathrooms where he hears a flush, running water, and boisterous laughs. He wonders if Scott hears this, and then wonders once more how he’s managing to ignore it. 

“Stiles!” Like the time before, everything snaps back to focus on Scott and Stiles has to calm his beating heart. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says. Talking seems to focus his mind. It keeps him busy, not that anyone will enjoy an even more talkative Stiles. “Just didn’t get much sleep. Derek had me looking up pointless shit that ended in the dead end of all dead ends. It’s not even worth repeating, so I won’t repeat it. But I’m fine, really fine! I just think we should get to class. Can’t be late!” 

He’s off down the hall before Scott can reply. Stiles knows Scotts following, he can hear each foot step, and he focuses on them. It isn’t until he reaches his first period that he realizes that everything sounds dulled, more mundane. He jumps when Scott pushes him towards their seats, and Stiles is silently thrilled that he had not heard Scott’s approach. 

Stiles feels like he’s just had a psychotic fit. The spontaneous heightening of his senses will not be a highlight of this process. In the back of his mind he knows they are getting stronger, less spaced out. He barely notices when he smells something he shouldn’t. He’s becoming accustomed to it, and it’s disconcerting. 

Taking a deep but subtle breath, Stiles pieces together the smell of Derek on both himself and Scott. The scent is heavy of Stiles, and he now understands his friends questioning. He smells the chalk dust in the air, the bitterness of coffee on their teachers desk, and the sweet smell of Lydia’s perfume. 

With every intake of breath Stiles organizes all the smells. He barely listens to the lesson, and he waits with baited breath to not be able to catch the light fragrance of lunch beginning to be cooked in the cafeteria on the other side of the school. The moment never comes, the sense never fades. 

It strikes Stiles then that he’ll never smell quite like a human does ever again. Thing will smell more pungent and complex; he will smell everything, but not as it once was. Nothing will ever smell the same. 

His father will probably always smell a little bit different. Curly fries will be a little more over spiced than he prefers. Perhaps the most crippling thought, Stiles thinks, is that he’ll never be able to smell his mother’s things, (her clothes, books, perfume) and remember her for the way Stiles remembered her to smell. That special mix of laundry soap and lilac. His mother will forever now smell like a stranger, and that, for Stiles, is the worst realization of them all. 

\---------

The day goes by, slow and tense. Stiles falls asleep through AP History, but Allison lets him borrow her notes. It’s a small positive, but it’s enough for Stiles to breath a little more easily. 

His hearing heightens two more times that day. Once right before the sixth period bell which leaves his ears throbbing. He’s really not sure how Scott manages it. The second time happens during practice and gets him hit in the head with the ball. He’s too busy trying to focus on what Isaac is telling Scott, as they sit across the field on the bleachers, to hear the ball whizzing through the air. 

After that coach lets him go shower off, looking after Stiles with a disproving look. When Stiles has the chance to look at the wound on his head, it’s already beginning to heal. The cut is superficial, and soon there is only dried blood without any indication of why it’s there. Even the once deep scratch at Stiles side is practically healed. There is only a whitened mark to show for it now.

The locker room reeks and Stiles spends as little time as he can in it. He’s out just as the rest of the team shuffles in. Scott catches him, foregoing a shower and follows him out into the parking lot. Stiles wants to push his friend away, the stench of sweat and dirt is overwhelming and he almost is thankful to catch the scent of Derek wafting out from the general direction that Stiles remembers parking. 

He focuses on that and has to roll his eyes when Scott stops dead in his tracks and sniff around. “Derek’s here.” Stiles just wants to say that he got that. Pretty sure he’d smelt him far before Scott had. But he keeps his mouth closed and hopes his face looks the proper shade of surprised. 

It isn’t too hard to pull off, not when there is some surprise to feel at Derek being here at all. “Wonder what he wants?” 

They share a look and head further into the maze of cars. Stiles lets Scott lead the way, feigning ignorance to their destination. Derek is leaning against Stiles’ Jeep, looking rather bored and disgruntled. His stiff form relaxes a bit when he sees them, eyes going straight to Stiles. 

No one says anything for a moment, a pregnant silence settling as Derek eyes flit between Scott and Stiles. It’s Stiles who, to probably no ones surprise, speaks first. There is too much quiet, leaving room for his ears to wander; picking up minuscule sounds that border on maddening. 

“What brings you here? Getting your creeper quota in for the day?” 

Derek snorts and shakes his head. There is a twitch at the corner of his lips, and he pushes back from the Jeep and heads closer towards both Scott and Stiles. “I need your help with something,” Derek says, in an odd sort of way that has Stiles’ interest peaked. It’s almost suspicious, and Stiles could sear he could hear the lie in that. 

Scott says nothing, he just looks expectantly at Stiles like he’ll spill the secret here. Unfortunately he will have to disappoint. Stiles looks just as lost. “Help with what?” he asks. 

“Help with that thing from last night,” Derek grinds out, getting impatient. 

Realization dawns and Stiles mouth opens in a wide ‘O’. “That thing! The big thing! With the…” Stiles takes the moment to mimic a monster with fangs and claws, complete with growling. 

“Care to enlighten?” Scott prompts, but shakes his head quickly after. “Never mind, once again I don’t think I want to know. Go enjoy your _alone time_.” There is enough stress put into the words ‘alone time’ for Stiles to pick out the exact meaning. 

He sighs, exasperated. “It’s nothing like that!” He calls after Scott who takes his leave. 

“Said I don’t want to know, nor do I care.” Scott is laughing and Stiles knows he’s just doing this to get on Stiles nerves. Derek seems to be getting the gist of the situation as well, if his frown lines are anything to go by. 

“He doesn’t think--” 

Stiles cuts him off. “Nope. He’s just being Scott.” Like that explains it all, and fortunately, it does. This now leaves Stiles alone in the parking lot with Derek. People filter through to leave every now and then, sparing them not a single glance. For all purposes they are alone. “So why are you here. Really?”

Keys are pulled from Derek’s jacket pocket and dangled in an inviting manner. “There’s some place I want to take you.” He pauses, looks almost unsure for a moment and then plows on. “I think it might help… With what your going through at least.” 

There’s a moment when Stiles considers turning Derek down, but then he sees the guilt flash past Derek’s eyes; a ghost of what was, and Stiles can’t leave Derek thinking there is bad blood between them. He nods and finds a smile to place upon his lips. 

If nothing else, then perhaps this will get the day off his back, and the bad things off his mind. School has been one hell he’d rather not remember for the rest of the evening. Hopefully, Derek can help with that. 

They leave in Derek’s Camaro, with the promise to return for Stiles’ Jeep that night. Excitement and a little trepidation bloom within Stiles, he can hear the racing of his heart and the blood pumping through his veins. He reaches over to the radio and turns it up. For once, Derek does not chastise him for touching, and Stiles thinks that maybe he understands. 

The ride is blissfully quiet, aside from the heavy beat of Led Zeppelin and Stiles own out of tune rendition of _Black Dog._

__________  
 _To be Continued_ . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I'm back at school for a second degree, so between that and work it's sucking up all my time. Luckily summer is almost here! 
> 
> This is sort of a transition chapter, but things should be moving along quickly soon. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and sorry for such a long wait!

**4.**  
__________

Stiles has successfully reprogrammed Derek’s radio to his liking by the time they reach the old town square. He’s even added a station playing only an assortment of classical music. Derek needs some culture in his life. 

“Will you leave my radio alone,” Derek finally says as they pull to a stop. 

“Nope.” Stiles sticks his tongue out and goes back to fiddling with the station tuner. “Your radio is now at my mercy.” 

Derek slaps his hand away and cuts the engine. They sit in silence for more than a moment and Derek settles Stiles with a hard look. “Don’t make me regret this.” He huffs and is out of the car before Stiles can reply. 

It causes a sharp chuckle to bubble up from Stiles throat as he goes to follow. He recognizes their surroundings immediately. It was only the day before that he’d been here. The smell alone gives their current location. Stiles finds himself sniffing the air and recoils, nose scrunching in distaste. 

“Real subtle.” Derek pushes Stiles forward with a friendly force that has him tripping over his feet. There is none of the irritated violence in the action that Stiles is so used to receiving, and he wonders if there was ever any violent intent. Or perhaps just a disconnect between acceptable force from a human and werewolf point of view. 

“Why are we here?” Stiles eyes the overly pungent boutique; the smell seeming stronger now that he’s not focusing solely on Derek’s scent. “I didn’t take you for the primping sort.” 

The remark earns no reply, Derek keeps his attention straight a head and steers himself and Stiles past the gaudy boutique and next door to the bookshop. It looks closed to Stiles; the room inside dark and unwelcoming. And now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember a time when he’s seen the place open. Ignoring the day he found Derek hiding out in the shop’s back room. 

“Dude, I think it’s closed.” 

No sooner can Stiles get that out of him mouth, Derek is brandishing keys and undoing the bookstores locks. The door creaks open and they are stepping into the dark entryway. To Stiles, the place looks even more dusty and unused, if that was possible. A light flicks on and then off, fighting itself to keep alight. 

Derek is moving through the shop with a familiarity that does nothing but birth a multitudes of question for Stiles. “Do you own this place?” He turns towards the shelf closest to him and lets his hands pass the spins of what look to be romances. Dust covers Stiles’ fingers and he wipes them off on his jeans. 

Silence stretches between them, and an answer doesn’t immediately come from Derek. He takes his time; throwing jacket over the counter next to a dated register and motions for Stiles to follow him into the back rooms. “My mom owned it,” Derek finally says. There is no hint of emotion in his voice, but Stiles knows better than to think that Derek is feeling nothing at the mention of his mother. He hears the slight race of Derek’s heart. 

“She liked books.” It’s not a question, not one Stiles would expect an answer for. What he gets instead is a little more insight and a greater understanding of Derek. 

“Laura couldn’t sell the place, and even now it’s more useful to keep.” 

Stiles is shown into the back room he’d been in days prior. It smells the same, Derek’s scent still strong with him standing close to Stiles amongst the smells of mold and ink. The books look as old as ever and Stiles does not wait for permission to nose through them. The first book to catch his eyes is one that is haphazardly sprawled on top of a random pile. It could very well be the book Derek had taken an interest in when Stiles had come across him. 

It takes a moment for the title to sink in. When it does, Stiles can’t help but bounce in excitement. “It’s a diary?” He asks, not quite believing? “An Argent’s diary?” 

Derek shrugs his shoulders. “We weren’t always on such bad terms with the Argents. The Hale’s and The Argent’s have been living side by side for far longer than I really know. There are actually a lot of books here that probably once belonged to them, if not other hunters.” 

A book is tossed to Stiles. He flips it open and grimaces. There is page after page of detailed drawings of ways to kill werewolves, along side diagrams of autopsies. “Why would you keep this?” Stiles places the book gingerly to the side and looks back to the diary. 

“Mom liked to collect what she could, thought they came in handy. We’d often have other packs contacting us for information. It was a good strength to have.” Derek is collecting books as he speaks. Looking through some and returning them while keep others. 

“Knowledge is power,” Stiles chuckles dryly. 

“Indeed. Came here looking for information on the Kanima; the day you followed me,” Derek clarifies. “Still haven’t found anything we don’t already know.” 

Suddenly everything makes sense. Stiles is curious as to why Derek has brought him here, but suddenly it all makes sense. After all, Stiles is the researcher out of the group. Even if he’s currently dealing with a crap load of personal problems, why should that stop him from helping Derek. It’s not like turning into what most would consider a monster was any big deal. Nothing a good nights rest couldn’t solve. 

“So that’s why you brought me here?” he asks, sounding bitter. 

There is a falter to Derek’s steps, but he covers it with impressive precision. He says nothing for a long moment, collecting books and then finally moving towards Stiles’ side. “I thought it this would help.” No other explanation is given to Stiles. Derek just hands over the stack of books and sits himself on the floor next to Stiles. 

Blinking his eyes in slight confusion, Stiles sorts through the books. They are all unmistakably about Lycanthropy. One even being the diary of a William J. Hale. “What are these?” Stiles can’t help but ask. 

Derek shrugs his shoulders, and if Stiles doesn’t know better, he would say Derek looks embarrassed. “They go over the change. What to expect, and how best to handle it.” There is something off about Derek as he says this, and maybe Stiles is wrong. Embarrassment might be the exact word to describe the flush of Derek’s cheeks and the tension in his shoulders. “I know you like researching, so I thought it would help if you could fully research the change. At least know what to expect.” 

Where were these when Scott got bit? It could have saved Stiles a lot of headaches in the end. Still he can’t help but feel grateful towards Derek. There is no reason for him to go out his way like this. Not for Stiles, and especially not when it meant handing over something so personal. Stiles doesn’t need to be a genius to know that these books had been precious to the Hale’s; to Derek’s mother most of all. 

“Thank you,” he says; it’s all he can say. It means more to Stiles than he can really articulate, which is saying, or not saying, a lot. And by the way Derek’s shoulders relax and shift contentedly, Stiles can guess that maybe Derek gets it. 

Stiles slips down to sit next to Derek, their sides touching in a companionable silence. Without another word, he opens ‘ _Taming the Wolf in You_ ’ and sets to reading. 

\----------

Hours seem to go by before Stiles closes another book and sets it aside. The evening has felt therapeutic in a way. It’s quiet, save for the flipping of pages and Derek’s calm even breathing. Not once does Stiles' mind wander out to the streets and the busy bustle of people and cars. The sounds are there, Stiles knows, but his senses do not threaten to reach out and over whelm him. It’s a small blessing, but it leaves him to wonder. 

“Is it always so overwhelming?” he asks, not looking to Derek. A few of the books have mentions of it here and there, but nothing concrete and in such detail to give Stiles much to go on. 

Derek puts down his own book, and turns to eye Stiles. “What is?” He looks confused, unsure, but looks willing to listen all the same. 

“These senses. Sometimes they’re just… I can’t focus. All the sounds just come rushing in and I feel like I’m drowning in them.” For a quick second Stiles feels the pull. The honk of a car horn blares and threatens to steal his concentration, but then Derek breathes in. It’s a sharp intake of breath and Stiles snaps his eyes to Derek and all else drains away. He wonders if this is some affect due to being so close to his alpha; his presence providing a soothing atmosphere. If anything else is the cause, well then, Stiles isn’t going to bother worrying himself over it. 

“It’s not…” Derek pauses. He’s frowning, looking Stiles over with an assessing gaze. “It’s not usually so overwhelming,” he says. “They all transitioned well enough.” 

Stiles doesn’t have to ask who they are. The ragtag team of teens that make up Derek’s pack, Scott unwillingly included, have not shown half the trouble Stiles faced thus far. For the first time he wishes that he could talk to them. Derek is good, he’s helping as much as he can, but Derek was born this way. There is a fundamental different, one that Derek can not fully compensate for. 

“Is it because I wasn’t bitten? That I was scratched? Would that make a difference?” 

There isn’t a beat of hesitation as Derek shakes his head. “No, that wouldn’t be it. It has to be--”

Stiles cuts him off, sitting up straighter. His eyes are bright and shinning with hesitant realization. “What can’t the bite cure?” he asks. 

“More than you’ll probably want to hear.” Derek’s smirks. “Why do you ask?” 

Of course this would happen to Stiles. Scott was cured of his asthma and Erica of her seizures. Stiles though, no, he can’t be that lucky. “My ADHD, that’s not something the bite can cure. Can it?” He looks to Derek, waiting for validation.

Derek hesitates, looking all the more unsure. “I don’t know.” He looks pained to admit to this. It’s enough to bring a small smile to Stiles face, at the very least. 

“It would make sense. Hell, it’s the only thing that makes sense. So much for adderoll I suppose.” Stiles had been taking his prescribed dose daily, keeping to his schedule. If it was his ADHD causing his senses to go haywire, then the adderoll was doing little to alleviate it. 

"Normal meds won't do you any good. Werewolves process them too fast. They'll be out of your system before they can even take affect." Derek looks just a little regretful, and then adds. "We can't even get drunk properly."

Stiles snorts. "At least that means no hangovers." Which isn't really any consolation.

"There are still perks." Derek grins. "And we might figure something out to help with the ADHD. Is it causing you any problems now?" 

"It's been good since you kidnapped me." That gets a small paperback thrown at his head. He bats it away with easy precision. The whole act has him freezing and staring down at his hand. "Huh," he says, almost dazed. "That was cool." 

Derek looks smug. "Perks." 

Perks indeed, Stiles thinks. Normal Stiles would have been suffering from a black eye right about now. It tugs a smile to Stiles face, and for the first time he wonders if this will be such a bad thing after all. 

"So," Stiles starts. "These perks you speak of... care to share?" 

Never has Stiles seen Derek so pleased. It's almost as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in days, Stiles does not see guilt swimming in Derek's eyes. 

"You'll be limited since the change hasn't fully taken, but there are some things we can try." Derek looks positively delighted, well as much as Derek is ever capable of showing, and it's almost unnerving. Maybe even a little bit ominous. 

"Just lead the way!" 

\----------

The sun is setting when they walk out of the bookstore and Derek pauses only to lock the door behind him. The air is chilly, but pleasant. People walk up and down the streets bundled in coats and Stiles feels strangely underdressed in only a thin hoodie. 

"Perk number one," Derek says. "Tolerance for cold." 

Stiles shivers then as a gust of wind blows through. The cold seeps in at last, but not as much as he would normally expect. "I'm questioning this tolerance you speak of." Derek, though, looks perfectly unaffected in only a long sleeved Henley.

"You'll get there."

They move towards the Camaro and to the promise of heat. Stiles tumbles into the passenger seat and waits to blast the heater. Cool air rushes through at first, followed by a colorful array of curse, before finally Stiles is granted the first wave of heat. He hums in satisfaction. 

Derek chuckles and drives out of the town center and back towards the outer laying suburbs and the Beacon Hills preserve. The car's clock reads 7:46, it's getting late and it's a school night. Stiles wonders about his father at home; it's his night off. It won't be too much longer before Stiles' phone starts buzzing and his father starts to worry. 

He should go home. Stiles shouldn't be running around on a school night. Not that it's stopped him before, but those times were important. He didn't have any other choice. Dinner will be ready soon, his dad usually cooks when Stiles isn't home early enough to get things started. His dad will have to eat without him if Stiles doesn't leave within the next hour. It doesn't help that Stiles still needs to pick up his jeep back at the school. 

The indecision is there. His dad or the prospect of something good actually coming from his turning? Stiles sighs and closes his eyes. His decision was made the moment he got back into the Camaro. 

"Let's not make this too late," is all Stiles says. He feels his own guilt swelling in his gut, but he swallows it down. What's one more lie to tell his dad? 

Minutes pass in silence, well what Stiles assume would have been silence. Werewolf hearing seems to cancel out any understanding that Stiles once had of quiet. He can hear conversations of people they pass on the street, or the fleeting radio of the passing car. When they reach the woods, the sounds of humanity fade and are replaced with the beat of wings and the crunching of twigs. 

Stiles jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder. His attention snaps back, eyes wide and anxious as he looks over to Derek. 

"You okay?" The car stops and they reach the Hale House without Stiles even noticing. It doesn't settle well in Stiles stomach. 

Shaking his head, Stiles eases off his seat belt. "No. I don't think so." 

Derek huffs and his grip tightens on Stiles' shoulder. "We'll figure this out. Maybe even ask Deaton." 

The weight on his shoulder is a comfort, and it warms him to know that someone cares. That his alpha cares. It's not the first time Stiles has thought of Derek as his alpha, but he wonders how that became something to be comforted by? 

"I'm good now," Stiles mumbles and tries to pull away. The grip is firm and Derek keeps him in place. 

Stiles turns to protest, the words falling silent when he's faced with the look Derek lays on him. It all seriousness, and perhaps a bit of worry. 

"You need to overcome this," Derek says. "When you transition fully, you won't have the luxury to lose focus when you're trying to keep yourself from turning. Lives might depend on if you can stay focused or not." 

"I thought you were going to show me fun things." 

Derek growls, eyes flashing red. Stiles decides to stay quiet and listen. "You'll need to find a replacement for your adderoll, a means to draw your focus back. Something to ground yourself too; an anchor." 

It's not the first time Stiles has heard the term, but it is the first time hearing it without it being specifically attached to werewolf control. "It's not that easy." If it was, Stiles would have ditched the meds long ago. He doesn't expect Derek to understand, it's not something to be controlled. Half the time Stiles begins to zone out, he's not even aware it's happening. 

"Nothing is ever easy," Derek says. "But sometimes we have to try anyways." 

Something tells Stiles that there is more being said there. He knows the hardships both their lives have dumped on them. It is never easy. Losing his mother wasn't easy, Stiles still feels the loss, but he tries anyway. And, he grudgingly admits, Derek might have a point.

"Can we worry about this later. It's not even a week in and I still need to pick up my jeep and get home." 

Derek sighs and relents. "Fine, but you'd better be quick then." He doesn't give Stiles much time to think before he's bolting out of the car and running. 

"What the hell?" Derek disappears into the forest with inhuman speed, and Stiles waste a few moments gaping. 

From somewhere further into the woods he hears Derek calling, taunting him to follow. "Hurry up!" He doesn't dare strain himself too listen too closely, lest he allow himself to be drawn into the chorus of sounds buzzing about the trees.

Stiles takes off into the woods, slow and cautious. He runs and waits for the familiar strain of muscle and exertion. When it never comes he pushes himself further, following the sweet trail of vanilla and leather. Derek's scent is like a beacon, and it leads Stiles easily through the thick growth of shrubs and trees. 

The wind blows by him, cold with the oncoming winter, and it feels like nothing else. Stiles feels free and uncontained. He rushes forward, faster and faster until he can feel the burn in his legs. Derek is a head of him, he can see him, but he is out-matched in speed. There is no denying that Derek is slowing his own pace to give Stiles a chance. 

"Don't make this easy on me," Stiles calls, pushing himself just a little faster. 

Derek snorts and slows even more. "If I didn't give you a crutch, then you'd never have a chance." 

Out of spit, Stiles forces one last spurt of speed from his tiring limbs and tackles Derek to the ground. "Bastard," he says, and pushes away to stand. Derek is looking up at him, trying to hold a glare despite his obvious mirth. 

"You'll get faster once your body settles into itself." Derek catches Stiles around the ankles and pulls him back down. "Sit and rest," he says, and moves himself to lean against a tall oak. 

Stiles sprawls out on the forest floor and closes his eyes. He listens to their breathing, harsh breaths that match their pounding hearts. It's therapeutic, almost calming in ways it shouldn't be. Derek's heart beats fast and strong and Stiles focuses on it. The sound of it drowns out everything else and helps to easy Stiles own racing heart. 

They lay there like that for a long moment. It's tranquil and Stiles forgets about everything else. He lets himself drift into a light sleep, aware of nothing but Derek seated only inches away. 

\----------

When Stiles wakes, he is drowning in the screeches of frogs, chirping of crickets, and every nocturnal nuisance known to man. He panics, the sounds too much to stand. It's maddening, and he clamps on his ears. 

Someone is shaking him. Stiles reaches out, grabs at a wrist and holds. Finger nails, which are very much human, dig in and Stiles knows he's breaking skin. The thump-thump of a pulse beats beneath his index finger with familiar comfort. 

It is the same beat which lulled him to sleep. The sound of Derek's heart pushes once more through the fog of noise and Stiles feels the rush of coming back to himself. He's breathing hard through his nose, eyes wide and scared. His own heart thumps wildly, like he has run through the woods for a second time that night. 

Stiles pulls Derek towards him, breathes in his scent, and calms himself. Derek lets him cling, not even stiffening in discomfort. Stiles thinks that he will probably be embarrassed about this in a moment. But a bigger need, an instinctual need, blooms inside him and he must satiate it. It's a feeling of something else under his skin, a need that feels foreign but that Stiles can not disconnect himself from. It is both him and not him. A terrible contradiction that makes him question his entire being. 

Derek rumbles. It's something of a growl, but feeds no fear. Stiles hiccups on a sharp intake of breath and forces himself away. "I'm fine," he lies, and they both know it. Stiles can hear it just as well as Derek. 

"It happened." Derek doesn't need to elaborate. 

The situation is now teetering on awkward; Stiles can't bring himself to look Derek in the eye. Not when, just moments ago, he was cling to the man like a child. "It's not a big deal. I focused myself." He hedges, not willing to give away the source of his focus. 

Derek doesn't seem inclined to allow Stiles that comfort. "What brought you back?" He asks. "You need to take hold of that." 

"I did," Stiles snaps, embarrassed. He eyes his hand where it's still clenched in the hem of Derek's shirt. 

Realization seems to hit Derek and his eyes widen just the fraction. Stiles can hear the slight increase in heart rate and he wonders if Derek is just as embarrassed as Stiles feels. Derek brushes it off quicker than Stiles ever could and collects himself. 

"It's not unnatural," Derek begins, sounding uncertain. "I'm your alpha. It's only natural you'd find comfort in me." It's the truth, or what Derek believes to be the truth, but something tells Stiles that he shouldn't be convinced. Not when Derek looks so unsure. 

"Is it normal to make you my anchor?" It's said with sarcastic bite, Stile not pausing long enough to even think about what he's asking. He's uncomfortable and words are his defense mechanism. Too bad it rarely works out that way. 

The silence that falls over them is nothing short of uncomfortable. Stiles eases back from Derek, releasing him completely. It's dark and no doubt late. He really should be getting home. "We probably should be---"

"No." Derek interrupts looking pained by his words. 

In comparison Stiles looks miffed. "What do you mean no? I'm not going to sleep out here all night. Don't blame me when my father comes looking for me and ends up shooting you. I'm not going to be the one to explain why you can shake off a round of bullets. That'll be on you." 

"That's not..." Derek stops, huffs, and shakes his head. "Never mind, you're right. It's getting late." He stands and holds out a hand for Stiles to take. 

Stiles allows himself to be helped up, brushing the dirt from his clothes once he's steadily standing. "I still need to pick up my Jeep." It's still sitting, hopefully unmarred, in the school parking lot. The small blessing in all of this is that the school won't be out of their way. Stiles can already hear the lecture his dad will be giving him. Joys. 

"I know," Derek says and then they are off again through the woods. They're running, Derek keeping pace with Stiles. 

The night air is still calm and cool. It eases Stiles' mind and settles his nerves. He doesn't have to think as he runs. This might actually be something he can come to enjoy about being a werewolf. There has to be some good with the bad. He'll just have to try and flush it all out. It sounds like a solid plan.

If he focus on that, then he doesn't have to think about what everything else might mean. This thing, between him and Derek. Stiles doesn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. If Derek helps to ease his ADHD riddled brain, then so be it. That doesn't mean he has to make sense of it. It'll just be another thing to add to Stiles list of subjects to ignore. 

 

\----------

They stop in the school parking lot, Derek pulling up and idling next to the jeep. It’s quiet, the radio is off, and no one is talking. Stiles can’t hear anything but his own heart, and he doesn’t try to reach out for more. Getting out without a word seems too awkward and selfish, especially after everything. Stiles just can’t seem to settle on what to say. 

“It’s getting late,” Derek says and Stiles jumps. He’s not used to Derek speaking first and he feels sheepish for being so unnaturally quiet. 

Stiles nods and scrambles to undo his seatbelt but doesn’t move from the car. “Listen,” he says after a moment. “Thanks, for tonight.” It sounds corny, like something from a chick flick, but it’s heartfelt all the same. 

Not waiting for a reply, Stiles slides from the Camaro and heads for his jeep. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him, but refuses to turn to acknowledge him. Things feel stiff and fragile between them, as if they are standing on glass and ready to fall. There is a tickle in the back of Stiles mind, a consciousness that promises answers to this mystery. It’s faint, and he pushes it aside just the same as he does his jeep’s door. 

“Stiles,” Derek calls, freezing him in place. Stiles turns just in time to catch a shinny slip of metal. He looks down to see a perfectly ordinary key resting in the palm of his hand. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, face twisted in curiosity. “What’s this?” he asks. 

“Key to the shop. Feel free to stop by, just lock up.” The Camaro’s engine revs and Derek peals out of the parking lot, leaving Stiles to stand there with a bewildered expression. 

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers to the night. It takes a moment, a few minutes to gather himself, but soon he’s climbing into his jeep and starting the engine. The digital clock on the dashboard reads a quarter till midnight and he curses his luck. 

Quickly he pulls out his phone, heart sinking as he looks at the screen. Five missed calls, all from his dad. “Well shit.” Stiles isn’t sure what he will tell his father. Excuses seem useless, but they are all he has. 

Head hanging low, Stiles begins his drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://akiruchan.tumblr.com/).


End file.
